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FRAMLET PARSONAGE. 


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By ANTHONY TKOLLOPE, 

.1* 

AUTHOR OF 

“DOCTOR THORNE," “THE BERTRAMS," “THE THREE CLERKS," 

&c., &c., &c. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW YORK: 

HARPER tfe BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN SQUARE. 

18 73 . 




AV / 


By Anthony Trollope. 


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CONTENTS. 


CHAPTEB PAQK 

I. “OMNES OMNIA BONA DICERE” 9 

11. THE FRAMLEY SET AND THE CHALDICOTES SET 18 

HI. CHALDICOTES 29 

I 

IV. A MATTER OP CONSCIENCE 41 

V. AMANTIUM IR^ AMORIS INTEGRATIO 50 

VI. MR. HAROLD SMITH’S LECTURE 64 

VII. SUNDAY MORNING 74 

VIII. GATHERUM CASTLE 82 

IX. THE vicar’s RETURN 100 

X. LUCY ROBARTS 108 

XI. GRISELDA GRANTLY 119 

XII. THE LITTLE BILL 134 

XIII. DELICATE HINTS 141 

XIV. MR. CRAWLEY OP HOGGLESTOCK 152 

XV. LADY LUFTON’S EMBASSADOR 163 

XVI. MRS. PODGENS’ BABY 172 

XVII. MRS. PROUDIE’s CONVERSAZIONE 184 

XVIII. THE NEW minister’s PATRONAGE 197 

XIX. MONEY DEALINGS 206 

XX. HAROLD SMITH IN THE CABINET 219 

XXL WHY PUCK, THE PONY, AVAS BEATEN 229 

XXII. HOGGLESTOCK PARSONAGE 238 

XXIII. THE TRIUMPH OF THE GIANTS 248 

XXIV. MAGN.l EST VERITAS 260 

XXV. NON-IMPULSIVE 273 

XXVI. IMPULSIVE 283 

XXVII. SOUTH AUDLEY STREET 295 

XX vm. DU. THORNE 304 

XXIX. MISS DUNSTABLE AT HOME 312 

XXX. THE GRANTLY TRIUMPH 333 

XXXI. SALMON FISHING IN NORWAY 338 

XXXII. THE GOAT AND COMPASSES 354 


Vlll ^ rOXTEXTS. 

CUAl'TKR PAGE 

XXXIII. CONSOLATION 362 

XXXIV. LADY LUFTON IS TAKKN HY SURPRISE 370 

XXXV. THE STORY' OP KING COPHETUA 380 

XXXVI. KIDNAPPING AT IIOGGLESTOCK 391 

XXXVII. MR. SOWERBY AVITIiOUT COMPANY 401 

XXXVIII. IS THERE CAUSE OR JUST IMPEDIMENT? 411 

XXXIX. IIOAV TO WRITE A LOVE-LETTER 424 

XL. INTERNECINE 435 

XLI. DON QUIXOTE 446 

XLII. TOUCHING PITCH 456 

XLIII. IS SHE NOT INSIGNIFICANT? 466 

XLIV. THE PHILISTINES AT THE PARSONAGE 477 

XLV. PALACE BLESSINGS 490 

XLVI. LADY LUFTOn’S REQUEST 500 

XLVII. NEMESIS 512 

XLVIII. HOW THEY. WERE ALL MARRIED, HAD TWO CHILDREN, 

AND LIVED HAPPY' EVER AFTER 520 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


CHAPTER I. 

“OMNES OMNIA BONA DICEEE.” 

When young Mark Robarts was leaving college, Ins fa- 
ther might well declare that all men began to say all good 
things to him, and to extol his fortune in that he had a son 
blessed with so excellent a disposition. 

This father was a physician living at Exeter. He was a 
gentleman possessed of no private means, but enjoying a 
lucrative practice, which had enabled him to maintain and 
educate a family with all the advantages Avhich money can 
give in this country. Mark was his eldest son and second 
child ; and the first page or two of this narrative must be 
consumed in giving a catalogue of the good things which 
chance and conduct together had heaped upon this young 
man’s head. 

His first step forward in life had arisen from his having 
been sent, while still very young, as a private pupil to the 
house of a clergyman, who was an old friend and intimate 
friend of his father’s. This clergyman had one other, and 
only one other, pupil — the young Lord Lufton, and be- 
tween the two boys there had sprung up a close alliance. 

While they were both so placed. Lady Lufton had visit- 
ed her son, and then invited young Robarts to pass his next 
holidays at Framley Court. This visit was made ; and it 
ended in Mark going back to Exeter with a letter full of 
l^raise from the widowed peeress. She had been delight- 
ed, she said, in having such a companion for her son, and 
expressed a hope that the boys might remain together 
during the course of their education. Dr. Robarts was a 
man who thought much of the breath of peers and peer- 
esses, and was by no means inclined to throw away any 
advantage which might arise to his child from such a 
friendship. When, therefore, the young lord was sent to 
Harrow, Mark Robarts went there also. 


10 


FKAMLEY TAESONAGE. 


That the lord and hi^friend often quarreled, and occa- 
sionally fought — the fact even that for one period of three 
months they never spoke to each other — by no means in- 
terfered with the doctor’s hopes. Mark again and again 
staid a fortnight at Framley Court, and Lady Lufton al- 
ways wrote about him in the highest terms. 

And then the lads went together to Oxford, and here 
Mark’s good fortune followed him, consisting rather in the 
highly respectable manner in which he lived, than in any^ 
wonderful career of collegiate success. His family was 
proud of him, and the doctor was always ready to talk of 
him to his patients ; not because he was a prizeman, and 
had gotten medals and scholarships, but on account of the 
excellence of his general conduct. He lived with the best 
set, he incurred no debts, he was fond of society — but able 
to avoid low society — liked his glass of wine, but was nev- 
er known to be drunk ; and, above all things, was one of 
the most popular men in the university. 

Then came the question of a profession for this young 
Hyperion ; and on this subject Dr. Robarts was invited 
himself to go over to Framley Court to discuss the matter 
with Lady Lufton. Dr. Robarts returned with a very 
strong conception that the Church was the profession best 
suited to his son. 

Lady Lufton had not sent for Dr. Robarts all the way 
from Exeter for nothing. The living of Framley was in 
the gift of the Lufton family, and the next presentation 
would be in Lady Lufton’s hands, if it should fall vacant 
before the young lord was twenty-five fescrs of age, and in 
the young lord’s hands if it should fall afterward. But the 
mother and the heir consented to give a joint promise to 
Dr. Robarts. Now as the present incumbent was over 
seventy, and as the living was worth £900 a year, there 
could be no doubt as to the eligibility of the clerical pro- 
fession. 

And I must farther say that the dowager and the doc- 
tor were justified in their choice by the life and principles 
of the young man — as far as any father can be justified in 
choosing such a profession for his son, and as far as any 
lay impropriator can be justified in making such a promise. 
Had Lady Lufton had a second son, that second son would 
probably have had the living, and no one would have 
thought it wrong; certainly not if tliat second son had 
been such a one as Mark Robarts. 


FEAMLEY FAKSONAGE. 


11 


Lady Lufton herself was a won^n who thought mucli 
on religious matters, and would by no means have been 
disposed to place any one in a living merely because such 
a one had been her son’s friend. Her tendencies were 
High Church, and she was enabled to perceive that those 
of young Mark Robarts ran in the same direction. She 
was very desirous that her son should make an associate 
of his clergyman, and by this step she would insure, at any 
rate, that. She was anxious that the parish vicar Should 
be one with whom sl^ could herself fully co-operate, and 
was perhaps unconsciously wishful that he might in some 
measure be subject to her influence. Should she appoint 
an elder man, this might probably not be the case to the 
same extent; and should her son have the gift, it might 
probably not be the case at all. 

And therefore it -was resolved that the living should be 
. given to young Robarts. 

He took his degree — not with any brilliancy, but quite 
in the manner that his father desired ; he then traveled for 
eight or ten months with Lord Lufton and a college don, 
and almost immediately after his return home was or- 
dained. 

The living of Framley is in the diocese of Barchester ; 
and, seeing what were Mark’s hopes with reference to that 
diocese, it was by no means difficult to get him a curacy 
Avithin it. But this curacy he was not allowed long to fill. 
He had not been in it above a twelve-month when poor old 
Dr. Stopford, the then vicar of Framley, was gathered to 
his fathers, and the full fruition of his rich hopes fell upon 
his shoulders. 

But even yet more must be told of his good fortune be- 
fore Ave can come to the actual incidents of our story. 
Lady Lufton, Avho, as I have said, thought much of clerical 
matters, did not carry her High-Church principles so far as 
to advocate celibacy for the clergy. On the contrary, she 
had an idea that a man could not be a good parish parson 
Avithout a Avife. So, having given to her favorite a posi- 
tion in the world, and an income sufficient for a gentle- 
man’s Avants, she set herself to Avork to find him a partner 
in those blessings. 

And here also, as in other matters, he fell in Avith the 
views of his patroness — not, hoAvever, that they Avere de- 
clared to him in that marked manner in which the aflair 


12 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


of the living had been^roached. Lady Lufton was much 
too highly gifted with woman’s craft for that. She never 
told the young vicar that Miss Monsell accompanied her 
ladyship’s married daughter to Framley Court expressly 
that he, Mark, might fall in love with her ; but such was 
in truth the case. 

Lady Lufton had but two children. The eldest, a daugh- 
ter, had been married some four or live years to Sir George 
Meredith, and this Miss Monsell was a dear friend of hers. 
And now looms before me the novelist’s great difficulty. 
Miss Monsell — or, rather, Mrs. Mark Robarts — must be de- 
scribed. As Miss Monsell our tale will have to take no 
prolonged note of her. And yet we will call her Fanny 
Monsell, when we declare that she was one of the pleasant- 
est companions that could be brought near to a man, as 
the future partner of his home and owner of his heart. 
And if high principles without asperity, female gentleness « 
without weakness, a love of laughter without malice, and 
a true loving heart, can qualify a woman to be a parson’s 
wife, then was Fanny Monsell qualified to fill that station. 

In person she was somewhat larger than commons Her 
face would have been beautiful but that her mouth was 
large. Her hair, which was copious, was of a light brown ; 
her eyes were also brown, and, being so, were the distinct- 
ive feature of her face, for brown eyes are not common. 
They were liquid, large, and full either of tenderness or 
of mirth. Mark Robarts still had his accustomed luck, 
when such a girl as this was brought to Framley for his 
wooing. 

And he did woo her — and jjmn her. For Mark himself 
was a handsome fellow. At this time the vicar was about 
twenty-five years of age, and the future Mrs. Robarts was 
two or three years younger. ISTor did she come quite 
empty-handed to the vicarage. It can not be said that 
Fanny Monsell was an heiress, but she had been left with 
a provision of some few thousand pounds. This was so 
settled that the interest of his wife’s money paid the heavy 
insurance on his life which young Robarts effected, and 
there was left to him, over and above, sufficient to furnish 
his parsonage in the very best style of clerical comfort, 
and to start him on the road of life rejoicing. 

So much did Lady Lufton do for her protegee^ and it may 
well be imagiued that the Devonshire physician, sitting med- 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


13 


itative over his parlor fire, looking hack, as men will look 
back on the upshot of their life, was well contented with 
that upshot as regarded his eldest offshoot, the Rev. Mark 
Robarts, the Vicar of Framley. 

But little has as yet been said, personally, as to our hero 
himself, and perhaps it may not be necessary to say much. 
Let us hope that by degrees he may come forth upon the 
canvas, showing to the beholder the nature of the man in- 
wardly and outwardly. Here it may suffice to say that he 
was no born heaven’s cherub, neither was he a born fallen 
devil’s spirit. Such as his training made him, such he was. 
He had large capabilities for good — and aptitudes also for 
evil, quite enough : quite enough to make it needful that 
he should repel temptation as temptation only can be re- 
pelled. Much had been done to spoil him, but in the ordi- 
nary acceptation of the word he was not spoiled. He had 
too much tact, too much common sense, to believe himself 
to be the paragon which his mother thought him. Self- 
conceit was not, perhaps, his greatest danger. Had ho 
possessed more of it, he might have been a less agreeable 
man, but his course before him might on that account have 
been the safer. 

In person he was manly, tall, and fair-haired, with a 
square forehead, denoting intelligence rather than thoughtj 
with clear white hands, filbert nails, and a power of dress- 
ing himself in such a manner that no one should ever ob- 
serve of him that his clothes were cither good or bad, shab- 
by or smart. 

Such was Mark Robarts when at the age of twenty-five, 
or a little more, he married Fanny Monsell. The marriage 
was celebrated in his own church, for Miss Monsell had no 
home of her own, and had been staying for the last three 
months at Framley Court. She Avas given away by Sir 
George Meredith, and Lady Lufton herself saAV that the 
Avedding Avas Avhat it should be Avith almost as much care 
as she had bestoAved on that of her own daughter. The 
deed of marrying, the absolute tying of the knot, Avas per- 
formed by the Very Reverend the Dean of Barchester, an 
esteemed friend of Lady Lufton’s. And Mrs. Arabin, the 
dean’s Avife, Avas of the party, though the distance from 
Barchester to Framley is long, and the roads deep, and no 
railway lends its assistance. And Lord Lufton was there, 
of course ; and people protested that he would surely fall 


14 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


in love with one of the four beautiful bridesmaids, of whom 
Blanche Robarts, the vicar’s second sister, was by common 
acknowledgment by far the most beautiful. 

And there was there another and a younger sister of 
Mark’s — who did not officiate at the ceremony though she 
was present — and of whom no prediction was made, seeing 
that she was then only sixteen, but of whom mention is 
made here, as it will come to pass that my readers will 
know her hereafter. Her name was Lucy Robarts. 

And then the vicar and his wife went off on their wed- 
ding tour, the old curate taking care of the Framley souls 
the while. 

And in due time they returned ; and after a farther in- 
terval, in due course, a child was born to them ; and then 
another ; and after that came the period at which we will 
begin our story. But before doing so, may I not assert 
that all men were right in saying all manner of good things 
to the Devonshire physician, and in praising his luck in 
having such a son ? 

“You were up at the house to-day, I suppose?” said 
Mark to his wife, as he sat stretching himself in an easy 
chair in the drawing-room before the fire previously to his 
dressing for dinner. It was a November evening, and he 
had been out all day, and on such occasions the aptitude 
for delay in dressing is very powerful. A strong-minded 
man goes direct from the hall door to his chamber without 
encountering the temptation of the drawing-room fire. 

“No ; but Lady Lufton was down here.” 

“ Full of arguments in favor of Sarah Thompson ?” 

“ Exactly so, Mark.” , 

“ And what did you say about Sarah Thompson ?” 

“Very little as coming from myself; but I did hint that 
you thought, or that I thought that you thought, that one 
of the regular trained school-mistresses would be better.” 

“ But her ladyship did not agree ?” 

“Well, I won’t exactly say that; though I think that 
perhaps she did not.” 

“ I am sure she did not. When she has a point to carry 
she is very fond of carrying it.” 

“ But then, Mark, her points are generally so good.” 

“ But, you see, in this affair of the school she is thinking 
more of her protegee than she does of the children.” 

“Tell her that, and I am sure she will give way.” 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


15 


And then again they were both silent. And the vicar 
having thoroughly warmed himself, as^far as tliis might be 
done by facing the fire, turned round and began the opera- 
tion a tergo. 

“ Come, Mark, it is twenty minutes past six. Will you 
go and dress ?” 

“I’ll tell you what, Fanny ; she must have her way about 
Sarah Thompson. You can see her to-morrow and tell 
her so.” 

“ I am sure, Mark, I would not give way if I thought it 
wrong. Nor would she expect it.” 

“If I persist this time I shall certainly have to yield 
the next ; and then the next may probably be more impor- 
tant.” 

“ But if it’s wrong, Mark ?” • 

“I didn’t say it was wrong. Besides, if it is wrong, 
wrong in some infinitesimal degree, one must put up with 
it. Sarah Thompson is very respectable ; the only question 
is whether she can teach.” 

The young wife, though she did not say so, had some 
idea that her husband was in error. It is true that one 
must put up with wrong — with a great deal of wrong. 
But no one need put up with wrong that he can remedy. 
Why should he, the vicar, consent to receive an incompe- 
tent teacher for the parish children, when he was able to 
procure one that was competent? In such a case — so 
thought Mrs. Robarts to herself — she would have fought 
the matter out with Lady Lufton. 

On the next morning, however, she did as she was bid, 
and signified to the dowager that all objection to Sarah 
Thompson would be withdrawn. 

“Ah! I was sure he would agree with me,” said her 
ladyship, “ when he learned what sort of person she is. I 
knew I had only to explain and then she plumed her 
feathers, and was very gracious ; for, to tell the truth. Lady 
Lufton did not like to opposed in things which concern- 
ed the parish nearly. 

“ And, Fanny,” said Lady Lufton, in her kindest man 
ner, “ you are not going any where on Saturday, are you ?” 

“ No, I think not.” 

“Then you must come to us. Justinia is to be here, 
you know” — Lady Meredith was named Justinia — “and 
you and Mr. Robarts had better stay with us till Monday. 


16 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


He can have the little book-room all to himself on Sunday. 
The Merediths go on Monday ; and Justinia won’t be hap- 
py if you are not with her.” 

It would be unjust to say that Lady Lufton had determ- 
ined not to invite the Robarts’s if she were not allowed to 
have her own way about Sarah Thompson. But such 
wmuld have been the result. As it was, however, she \vas 
all kindness ; and when Mrs. Robarts made some little ex- 
cuse, saying that she was afraid she must return home in 
the evening because of the children. Lady Lufton declared 
that there was room enough at Framley Court for baby 
and nurse, and so settled the matter in her own way, with 
a couple of nods and three taps of her umbrella. 

This was on Tuesday morning, and on the same evening, 
before dinner, the vicar again seated himself in the same 
chair before the drawing-room fire, as soon as he had seen 
his horse led into the stable. 

“Mark,” said his wife, “the Merediths are to be at 
Framley on Saturday and Sunday ; and I have promised 
that we will go up and stay over till Monday.” 

“You don’t mean it! Goodness gracious, how i)rovok- 
ing !” 

“Why? I thought you wouldn’t mind it. And Jus- 
tinia would think it unkind if I were not there.” 

“You can go, my dear, and of course will go. But as 
for me, it is impossible.” 

“ But Avhy, love ?” 

“Why? Just now, at the school-house, I answered a 
letter that was brought to me from Chaldicotes. Sowerby 
insists on my going over there for a week or so; and I 
have said that I would.” 

“ Go to Chaldicotes for a week, Mark ?” 

“ I believe I have even consented to ten days.” 

“ And be away two Sundays ?” 

“ Ro, Fanny, only one. Don’t be so censorious.” 

“Don’t call me censorious, Mark; you know I am not 
so. But I am so sorry. It is just what Lady Lufton 
won’t like. Besides, you were away in Scotland two Sun- 
days last month.” 

“ In September, Fanny. And that is being censorious.” 

“Oh, but, Mark, dear Mark! don’t say so. You know 
I don’t mean it. But Lady Lufton does not like those 
Chaldicotes people. You know Lord Lufton Avas Avith 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


17 


you the last time you were there ; and how annoyed she 
was !” 

“ Lord Lufton won’t be with me now, for he is still in 
Scotland. And the reason why I am going is this : Har- 
old Smith and his wife will be there, and I am very anx- 
ious to know more of them. I have no doubt that Harold 
Smith will be in the government some day, and I can not 
afford to neglect such a man’s acquaintance.” 

“ But, Mark, what do you want of any government ?” 

“Well, Fanny, of course I am bound to say that I want 
nothing; neither in one sense do I; but nevertheless I 
shall go and meet the Harold Smiths.” 

“ Could you not be back before Sunday ?” 

“I have promised to preach at Chaldicotes. Harold 
Smith is going to lecture at Barchester about the Austral- 
asian archipelago, and I am to preach a charity sermon on 
the same subject. They want to send out more missiona- 
ries.” 

“ A charity sermon at Chaldicotes !” 

“ And why not ? The house will be quite full, you know ; 
and I dare say the Arabins will be there.” 

“ I think not ; Mrs. Arabin may get on with Mrs. Harold 
Smith, though I doubt that ; but I’m sure she’s not fond 
of Mrs. Smith’s brother. I don’t think she would stay at 
Chaldicotes.” 

“a\nd the bishop will iwobably be there for a day or 
two.” 

“That is much more likely, Mark. If the pleasure of 
meeting Mrs. Proudie is taking you to Chaldicotes, I have 
not a word more to say.” 

“ I am not a bit more fond of Mrs. Proudie than you 
are, Fanny,” said the vicar, with something like vexation 
in the tone of his voice, for he thought that his wife was 
hard upon him. “ But it is generally thought that a parish 
clergyman does well to meet his bishop now and then. 
And as I was invited there especially to preach while all 
these people are staying at the place, I could not well re- 
fuse.” And then he got up, and, taking his candlestick, es- 
caped to his dressing-room. 

“ But what am I to say to Lady Lufton ?” his wife said 
to him in the course of the evening. 

“ Just write her a note, and tell her that you find I had 
promised to preach at Chaldicotes next Sunday. You’ll 
go, of course.” 


18 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


‘‘Yes: but I know she’ll be annoyed. You were away 
the last time she had people there.” 

“ It can’t be helped. She must put it down against Sa- 
rah Thompson. She ought not to expect to win always.” 

“ I should not have minded it if she had lost, as you call 
it, about Sarah Thompson. That was a case in which you 
ought to have had your own way.” 

“ And this other is a case in which I shall have it. It’s 
a pity that there should be such a difference — isn’t it ?” 

Then the wife perceived that, vexed as she was, it would 
be better that she should say nothing farther ; and before 
she went to bed she wrote the note to Lady Lufton, as her 
husband recommended. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE FRAMLEY SET AND THE OHALDICOTES SET. 

It will be necessary that I should say a word or two of 
some of the people named in the few preceding pages, and 
also of the localities in which they lived. 

Of Lady Lufton herself enough, perhaps, has been writ- 
ten to introduce her to our readers. The Framley proper- 
ty belonged to her son ; but as Lufton Park — an ancient 
ramshackle place in another county — had heretofore been 
the family residence of the Lufton family, Framley Court 
had been apportioned to her for her residence for life. Lord 
Lufton himself was still unmarried ; and as he had no es- 
tablishment at Lufton Park — which, indeed, had not been in- 
habited since his grandfather died — he lived with his moth- 
er when it suited him to live any where in that neighbor- 
hood. The widow would fain have seen more of him than 
he allowed her to do. He had a shooting-lodge in Scot- 
land, and apartments in London, and a string of horses in 
Leicestershire ; much to the disgust of the county gentry 
around him, who held that their own hunting was as good 
as any that England could afford. His lordship, however, 
paid his subscription to the East Barsetshire pack, and 
then thought himself at liberty to follow his own pleasure 
as to his own amusement. 

Framley itself was a pleasant country place, having about 
it nothing of seigniorial dignity or grandeur, but possess- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


19 


ing every thing necessary for the comfort of country life. 
The house was a low building of two stories, built at dif- 
ferent periods, and devoid of all pretensions to any style 
of architecture; but the rooms, though not lofty, were 
warm and comfortable, and the gardens were trim and 
neat beyond all others in the county. Indeed, it was for 
its gardens only that Framley Court was celebrated. 

Village there was none, properly speaking. The high 
road went winding about through the Framley paddock^s, 
shrubberies, and wood-skirted home-fields, for a mile and a 
half, not two hundred yards of which ran in a straight 
line; and there was a cross-road which passed down 
through the domain, whereby there came to be a locality 
called Framley Cross. Here stood the “Lufton Arras,” 
and here, at Framley Cross, the hounds occasionally would 
meet ; for the Framley woods were drawn, in spite of the 
young lord’s truant disposition ; and then, at the Cross 
also, lived the shoemaker, who kept the post-office. 

Framley church was distant from this ‘just a quarter of 
a mile, and stood immediately opposite to the chief en- 
trance to Framley Court. It was but a mean, ugly build- 
ing, having been erected about a hundred years since, when 
all churches then built were made to be mean and ugly ; 
nor was it large enough for the congregation, some of 
whom were thus driven to the dissenting chapels, the Si- 
ons and Ebenezers, which had got themselves established 
on each side of the parish, in putting down which Lady 
Lufton thought that her pet parson was hardly as energet- 
ic as he might be. It was, therefore, a matter near to Lady 
Lufton’s heart to see a new church built, and she was urg- 
ent in her eloquence, both with her son and with the vicar, 
to have this good work commenced. 

Beyond the church, but close to it, were the boys’ school 
and girls’ school, two distinct buildings, which owed their 
erection to Lady Lufton’s energy ; then came a neat little 
grocer’s shop, the neat grocer being the clerk and sexton, 
and the neat grocer’s wife the pew-opener in the church. 
Podgens was their name, and they were great favorites 
with her ladyship, both having been servants up at the 
house. 

And here the road took a sudden turn to the left, turn- 
ing, as it were, away from Framley Court; and just be- 
yond the turn was the vicarage, so that there was a little 


.20 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


garden-path running from the back of the vicarage-grounds 
into the church-yard, cutting the Podgens’s off into an iso- 
lated corner of their own ; from whence, to tell the truth, 
the vicar would have been glad to banish them and their 
cabbages, could he have had the power to do so. For lias 
not the small vineyard of Naboth been always an eyesore 
to neighboring potentates ? 

The potentate in this case had as little excuse as Ahab, 
for nothing in the i^arsonage way could be more perfect 
than his parsonage. It had all the details requisite for the 
house of a moderate gentleman with moderate means, and 
none of those expensive superfluities which immoderate 
gentlemen demand, or which themselves demand immod- 
erate means. And then the gardens and paddocks were 
exactly suited to it ; and every thing was in good order ; 
not exactly new, so as to be raw and uncovered, and redo- 
lent of workmen, but just at that era of their existence in 
which newness gives way to comfortable homeliness. 

Other village at Framley there was none. At the back 
of the Court, up one of those cross-roads, there "was anotln- 
er small shop or two, and there was a very neat cottage 
residence, in which lived the widow of a former curate, 
another protegee of Lady Lufton’s ; and there was a big, 
staring brick house, in Avhich the present curate lived ; but 
this was a full mile distant from the church, and farther 
from Framley Court, standing on that cross-road which runs 
from Framley Cross in a direction away from the mansion. 
This gentleman, the Rev. Evan Jones, might, from his age, 
have been the vicar’s father ; but he had been for many 
years curate of Framley ; and though he was personally 
disliked by Lady Lufton, as being Low Church in his prin- 
cijDles, and unsightly in his appearance, nevertheless she 
would not urge his removal. He had two or three pupils 
in that large b^i’ick house, and if turned out from these and 
from his curacy, might find it difiicult to establish himself 
elsewhere. On this account mercy 'was extended to the 
Rev. E. Jones, and, in spite of his red face and awkward 
big feet, he was invited to dine at Framley Court, with 
his plain daughter, once in every three months. 

Over and above these, there was hardly a house in the 
parish of Framley, outside the bounds of Framley Court, 
except those of farmers and farm laborers; and yet the 
parish was of large extent. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


21 


Framley is in the eastern division of the county of Bar- 
setshire, which, as all the Avorld knows, is, politically speak- 
ing, as true blue a county as any in England. There have 
been backslidings even here, it is true ; but then, in what 
county have there not been such backslidings ? Where, in 
these pinchbeck days, can w'e hope to find the old agricul- 
tural virtue in all its purity? But, among those back- 
sliders, I regret to say that men now reckon Lord Lufton. 
Not that he is a violent Whig, or perhaps that he is a Whig 
at all. But he jeers and sneers at the old county doings ; 
declares, when solicited on the subject, that, as far as he is 
concerned, Mr. Bright may sit for the county if he pleases ; 
and alleges that, being unfortunately a peer, he has no right 
even to interest himself in the question. All this is deeply 
regretted, for, in the old days, there was no portion of the 
county more decidedly true blue than that Framley dis- 
trict ; and, indeed, up to the present day, the dowager is 
able to give an occasional helping hand. 

Chaldicotes is the seat of Nathaniel Sowerby, Esq., 'wdfe, 
at the moment supposed to be now present, is one of the 
members for the Western Division of Barsetshire. But 
this western division can boast none of the fine political 
attributes which grace its twin brother. It is decidedly 
Whig, and is almost governed in its politics by one or two 
great Whig families. 

It has been said that Mark Robarts was about to pay a 
visit to Chaldicotes, and it has been hinted that his wife 
would have been as well pleased had this not been the 
case. Such was certainly the fact ; for she, dear, prudent, 
excellent wife as she was, knew that Mr. Sowerby was not 
tlie most eligible friend in the wmi'ld for a young clergy- 
man, and knew, also, that there was but one other house in 
the whole county the name of which was so distasteful to 
Lady Lufton. The reasons for this were, I may say, man- 
ifold. In the first place, Mr. Sowerby was a Whig, and 
was seated in Parliament mainly by the interest of that 
great Wlfiig autocrat the Duke of Omnium, whose resi- 
dence was more dangerous even than that of Mr. Sowerby, 
and whom Lady Lufton regarded as an impersonation of 
Lucifer upon earth. Mr. Sowerby, too, was unmarried — as 
indeed, also, was Lord Lufton, much to his mother’s grief. 
Mr. Sowerby, it is true, Avas fifty, Avhereas the young lord 
Avas as yet only tAventy-six ; but, nevertheless, her ladyship 


22 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


was becoming anxious on the subject. In her mind every 
man was bound to marry as soon as he could maintain a 
wife ; and she held an idea — a quite private tenet, of which 
she was herself but imperfectly conscious — that men in 
general were inclined to neglect this duty for their own 
selfish gratifications, that the wicked ones encouraged the 
more innocent in this neglect, and that many would not 
marry at all, were not an unseen coercion exercised against 
them by the other sex. The Duke of Omnium was the 
very head of all such sinners, and Lady Lufton greatly 
feared that her son might be made subject to the baneful 
Omnium influence, by means of Mr. Sowerby and Chaldi- 
cotes. 

And then Mr. Sowerby was known to be a very poor 
man, with a very large estate. He had wasted, men said, 
much on electioneering, and more in gambling. A consid- 
erable portion of his property had already gone into the 
hands of the duke, who, as a rule, bought up every thing 
around him that was to be purchased. Indeed, it was said 
of him by his enemies, that so covetous was he of Barset- 
shire property, that he would lead a young neighbor on to 
his ruin, in order that he might get his land. What — oh ! 
what if he should come to be possessed in this way of any 
of the fair acres of Framley Court? What if he should 
become j^ossessed of them all ? It can hardly be wonder- 
ed at that Lady Lufton should not like Chaldicotes ? 

The Chaldicotes set, as Lady Lufton called them, were 
in every way opposed to what a set should be according 
to her ideas. She liked cheerful, quiet, well-to-do people, 
who loved their Church, their country, and their queen, and 
who were not too anxious to make a noise in the world. 
She desired that all the farmers round her should be able 
to pay their rents without trouble, that all the old women 
should have warm flannel petticoats, that the working-men 
should be saved from rheumatism by healthy food and dry 
houses ; that they should all be obedient to their pastors 
and masters — temporal as well as spiritual. Tl^it was her 
idea of loving her country. She desired also that the 
copses should be full of pheasants, the stubble-field of par- 
tridges, and the gorse covers of foxes ; in that way, also, 
she loved her country. She had ardently longed, during 
that Crimean war, that the Russians might be beaten — but 
not by the French, to the exclusion of the English, as had 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


23 


seemed to her to be too much the case ; and hardly by the 
English under the dictatorship of Lord Palmerston. In- 
deed, she had had but little faith in that war after Lord 
Aberdeen had been expelled. If, indeed. Lord Derby could 
have come in ! 

But now as to this Chaldicotes set. After all, there was 
nothing so very dangerous about them ; for it w^as in Lon- 
don, not in the country, that Mr. Sowerby indulged, if he 
did indulge, his bachelor malpractices. Speaking of them 
as a set, the chief offender was Mr. Harold Smith, or per- 
haps his wife. He also was a member of Parliament, and, 
as many thought, a rising man. His father had been for 
many years a debater in the House, and had held high of- 
fice. Harold, in early life, had intended himself for the 
cabinet; and if working hard at his trade could insure suc- 
cess, he ought to obtain it sooner or later. He had already 
filled more than one subordinate station, had been at the 
Treasury, and for a month or two at the Admiralty, aston- 
ishing official mankind by his diligence. Those last-named 
few months had been under Lord Aberdeen, with whom 
he had been forced to retire. He was a younger son, and 
not possessed of any large fortune. Politics as a profes- 
sion was therefore of importance to him. He had in early 
life married a sister of Mr. Sowerby ; and as the lady was 
some six or seven years older than himself, and had brought 
with her but a scanty dowry, people thought that in this 
matter Mr. Harold Smith had not been perspicacious. Mr. 
Harold Smith was not personally a popular man with any 
party, though some judged him to be eminently useful. 
He was laborious, well-informed, and, on the whole, honest; 
but he was conceited, long-wdnded, and pompous. 

Mrs. Harold Smith w^as the very opposite of her lord. 
She was a clever, bright woman, good-looking for her time 
of life — and she was now over forty — with a keen sense 
of the value of all worldly things, and a keen relish for all 
the world’s pleasures. She was neither laborious nor Avell- 
informed, nor perhaps altogether honest — what woman 
ever understood the necessity or recognized the advantage 
of political honesty ? — but then she was neither dull nor 
pompous, and if she was conceited she did not show it. 
She was a disappointed woman as regards her husband ; 
seeing that she had married him on the speculation that 
he would at once become politically important ; and as yet 


24 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


Ml-. Smith had not quite fulfilled the prophecies of his ear- 
ly life. 

And Lady Lufton, when she spoke of the Chaldicotes 
set, distinctly included, in her own mind, the Bishop of 
Barchester, and his wife and daughter. Seeing that Bish- 
op Proudie was, of course, a man much addicted to religion 
and to religious thinking, and that Mr. Sowerby himself 
had no peculiar religious sentiments whatever, there would 
not at first sight appear to be ground for much intercourse, 
and perhaps there was not much of such intercourse ; but 
Mrs. Proudie and Mrs. Harold Smith were firm friends of 
four or five years’ standing — ever since the Proudies came 
into the diocese, and therefore the bishop was usually taken 
to Chaldicotes whenever Mrs. Smith paid her brother a 
visit. Now Bislioj^ Proudie was by no means a High- 
Church dignitary, and Lady Lufton had never forgiven 
him for coming into that diocese. She had, instinctively, 
a high respect "for the episcopal office ; but of Bishop Prou- 
die himself she hardly thought better than she did of Mr. 
Sowerby, or of that fabricator of evil, the Duke of Omnium. 
Whenever Mr. Robarts would plead that in going any 
where he would have the benefit of meeting the bishop, 
Lady Lufton would slightly curl her upper lip. She could 
not say in words that Bishop Proudie — bishop as he cer- 
tainly must be called — w^as no better than he ought to be ; 
but by that curl of her lip she did explain to those who 
knew her that such was the inner feeling of her heart. 

And then it was understood — Mark Robarts, at least, had 
so heard, and the information soon reached Framley Court 
— that Mr. Supplehouse was to make one of the Chaldi- 
cotes party. Now Mr. Supplehouse was a worse compan- 
ion for a gentlemanlike, young, High-Church, conservative 
county parson than even Harold Smith. He also was in 
Parliament, and had been extolled during the early days 
of that Russian war by some portion of the metropolitan 
daily press as the only man who could save the country. 
Let him be in the ministry, the Jupiter had said, and there 
would be some hope of reform,<some chance that England’s 
ancient glory would not be allowed in these perilous times 
to go headlong to oblivion. And upon this the ministry, not 
anticipating much salvation from Mr. Supplehouse, but will- 
ing, as they usually are, to have the Jupiter at their back, 
did send for that gentleman, and gave him some footing 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


25 


among them. But how can a man born to save a nation, 
and to lead a people, be content to fill the chair of an un- 
der-secretary ? Supplehouse was not content, and soon 
gave it to be understood that his place was much higher 
than any yet tendered to him. The seals of high ofiice, or 
war to the knife, was the alternative which he offered to a 
much-belabored head of afiairs — nothing doubting that the 
head of afiairs would recognize the claimant’s value, and 
would have before his eyes a wholesome fear of the Jupi- 
ter, But the head of afiairs, much belabored as he was, 
knew that he might pay too high even for Mr. Supplehouse 
and the Jupiter ; and the savior of the nation was told 
that he might swing his tomahawk. Since that time he 
had been swinging his tomahawk, but not with so much 
effect as had been anticipated. He also was very intimate 
with Mr. Sowerby, and was decidedly one of the Chaldi- 
cotes set. 

And there were many others included in the stigma 
whose ^ins were political or religious 4*ather than moral. 
But they were gall and wormwood to Lady Lufton, who 
regarded them as children of the Lost One, and who grieved 
with a mother’s grief when she knew that her son was 
among them, and felt all a patron’s anger when she heard 
that her clerical protege was about to seek such society. 
Mrs. Robarts might well say that Lady Lufton would be 
annoyed. 

“ You won’t call at the house before you go, will you ?” 
the wife asked on the following morning. He was to start 
after lunch on that day, driving himself in his own gig, so 
as to reach Chaldicotes, some twenty-four miles distant, 
before dinner. 

“ N^o, I think not. What good should I do ?” 

“ Well, I can’t explain ; but I think I should call ; part- 
ly, perhaps, to show her that as I had determined to go, I 
was not afraid of telling her so.” 

“Afraid! That’s nonsense, Fanny. I’m not afraid of 
her. But I don’t see why I should bring down upon my- 
self the disagreeable things she will say. Besides, I have 
not time. I must walk up and see J ones about the duties ; 
and then, what with getting ready, I shall have enough to 
do to get ofi’ in time.” 

He paid his visit to Mr. Jones, the curate, feehng no 
qualms of conscience there, as he rather boasted of all the 


26 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


members of Parliament he was going to meet, and of the 
bishop who would be with them. Mr. Evan Jones was 
only his curate, and in speaking to him on the matter he 
could talk as though it were quite the proper thing for a 
vicar to meet his bishop the house of a county member. 
And one would be inclined to say that it was proper : only 
why could he not talk of it in the same tone to Lady Luf- 
ton ? And then, having kissed his wife and children, he 
drove off, well pleased with his prospect for the coming 
ten days, but already anticipating some discomfort on his 
return. 

On the three following days Mrs. Robarts did not meet 
her ladyship. She did not exactly take any steps to avoid 
such a meeting, but she did not purposely go up to the 
big house. She went to her school as usual, and made one 
or two calls among the farmers’ wives, but put no foot 
within the Framley Court grounds. She was braver than 
her husband, but even she did not wish to anticipate the 
evil day. • 

On the Saturday, just before it began to get dusli, when 
she was thinking of preparing for the fatal idunge, her 
friend. Lady Meredith, came to her. 

“So, Fanny, we shall again be so unfortunate as to miss 
Mr. Robarts,” said her ladyship. 

“ Yes. Did you ever know any thing so unlucky ? But 
he had promised Mr. Sowerby before he heard that you 
were coming. Pray do not think that he would have gone 
away had he known it.” 

“We should have been sorry to keep him from so much 
more amusing a party.” 

“Now, Justinia, you are unfair. You intend to imply 
that he has gone to Chaldicotes because he likes it better 
than Framley Court; but that is not the case. I hope 
Lady Lufton does not think that it is.” 

Lady Meredith laughed as she put her arm round her 
friend’s waist. “Don’t lose your eloquence in defending 
him to me,” she said. “You’ll want all that for my 
mother.” 

“ But is your mother angry ?” asked Mrs. Robarts, show- 
ing by her countenance how eager she was for true tidings 
on the subject. 

“Well, Fanny, you know her ladyship as well as I 
do. She thinks so very highly of the vicar of Framley 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 27 

that she does begrudge him to those politicians at Chaldi- 
cotes.” 

“But, Justinia, the bishop is to be there, you know.” 

“ I don’t think that that consideration will at all recon- 
cile my mother to the gentleman’s absence. He ought to 
be very proud, I know, to find that he is so much thought 
of. But come, Fanny, I want you to walk back with me, 
and you can dress at the house. And now we’ll go and 
look at the children.” 

After that, as they walked together to Framley Court, 
Mrs. Robarts made her friend promise that she would 
stand by her if any serious attack were made on the ab- 
sent clergyman. 

“Are you going up to your room at once?” said the 
vicar’s wife, as soon as they were inside the porch leading 
into the hall. Lady Meredith immediately knew what her 
friend meant, and decided that the evil day should not be 
postponed. “We had better go in, and have it over,” she 
said, “ and then we shall be comfortable for the evening.” 
So the drawing-room door was opened, and there was Lady 
Lufton alone upon the sofa. 

“ l!^ow, mamma,” said the daughter, “ you mustn’t scold 
Fanny much about Mr. Robarts. He has gone to preach 
a charity sermon before the bishop, and under those cir- 
cumstances, perhaps, he could not refuse.” This was a 
stretch on the part of Lady Meredith — put in with much 
good-nature, no doubt, but still a stretch ; for no one had 
supposed that the bishop would remain at Chaldicotes for 
the Sunday. 

“ How do you do, Fanny ?” said Lady Lufton, getting 
up. “ I am not going to scold her ; and I don’t know how 
you can talk such nonsense, Justinia. Of course, we are 
very sorry not to have Mr. Robarts, more especially as he 
was not here the last Sunday that Sir George was with 
us. I do like to see Mr. Robarts in his own church, cer- 
tainly ; and I don’t like any other clergyman there as well. 
If Fanny takes that for scolding, why — ” 

“ Oh no. Lady Lufton ; and it’s so kind of you to say so. 
But Mr. Robarts was so sorry that he had accepted this 
invitation to Chaldicotes before he heard that Sir George 
was coming, and — ” 

“ Oh, I know that Chaldicotes has great attractions which 
we can not offer,” said Lady Lufton. 


28 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Indeed, it was not that. But he was asked to preach, 
you know; and Mr. Harold Smith — ” Poor Fanny was 
only making it worse. Had she been worldly wise, she 
would have accepted the little compliment implied in Lady 
Lufton’s first rebuke, and then have held her peace. 

“ Oh, yes, the Harold Smiths ! they are irresistible, I 
know. How could any liian refuse to join a party graced 
both by Mrs. Harold Smith and Mrs. Proudie — even though 
his duty should require him to stay away 

“Now, mamma — ” said Justinia. 

“Well, my dear, what am I to say? You would not 
wish me to tell a fib. I don’t like Mrs. Harold Smith — at 
least, Avhat I hear of her ; for it has not been my fortune 
to meet her since her marriage. It may be conceited; 
but, to own the truth, I think that Mr. Robarts would be 
better off with us at Framley than with the Harold Smiths 
at Chaldicotes, even though Mrs. Proudie be thrown into 
the bargain.” 

It was nearly dark, and therefore the rising color in the 
face of Mrs. Robarts could not be seen. She, however, 
was too good a wife to hear these things said without 
some anger within her bosom. She could blame her hus- 
band in her own mind, but it was intolerable to her that 
others should blame him in her hearing. 

“ He would undoubtedly be better ofiT,” she said ; “ but 
then. Lady Lufton, people can’t always go exactly where 
they will be best off. Gentlemen sometimes must — ” 

“Well, well, my dear, that will do. He has not taken 
you, at any rate, and so we will forgive him.” And Lady 
Lufton kissed her. “As it is” — and she affected a low 
whisper between the two young wives — “ as it is, we must 
e’en put up with poor old Evan Jones. He is to be here 
to-night, and we must go and dress to receive him.” 

And so they went off Lady Lufton was quite good 
enough at heart to like Mrs. Robarts all the better for 
standing xip for her absent lord. 


FliAMLEY TAESONAGE. 


29 


CHAPTER III. * 

CHALDICOTES. 

Chaldicotes is a house of much more pretension than 
Framley Court. Indeed, if one looks at the ancient marks 
about it rather than at those of the present day, it is a 
place of very considerable pretension. There is an old 
forest, not altogether belonging to the property, but at- 
tached to it, called the Chase of Chaldicotes. A portion 
of this forest ccmes up close behind the mansion, and of 
itself gives a character and celebrity to the place. The 
Chase of Chaldicotes — the greater part of it, at least — is, 
as all the world knows, crown property, and now, in these 
utilitarian days, is to be disforested. In former times it 
was a great forest, stretching half across the country, al- 
most as far as Silverbridge ; and there are bits of it, here 
and there, still to be seen at intervals throughout the whole 
distance; but the larger remaining portion, consisting of 
aged hollow oaks, centuries old, and wide-spreading with- 
ered beeches, stands in the two parishes of Chaldicotes 
and Uffley. People still come from afar to see the oaks of 
Chaldicotes, and to hear their feet rustle among the thick 
autumn leaves. But they will soon come no longer. The 
giants of past ages are to give way to wheat and turnips ; 
a ruthless Chancellor of the Exchequer, disregarding old 
associations and rural beauty, requires money returns from 
the lands, and the Chase of Chaldicotes is to vanish from 
the earth’s surface. 

Some part of it, however, is the private property of Mr. 
Sowerby, Avho hitherto, through all his pecuniary distress- 
es, has managed to save from the axe and the auction-mart 
that portion of his paternal heritage. The house of Chal- 
dicotes is a large stone building, probably of the time of 
Charles the Second. It is approached on both fronts by a 
heavy double flight of stone steps. In the front of the 
house a long, solemn, straight avenue through a double 
row of lime-trees leads away to lodge gates, which stand 
in the centre of the village of Chaldicotes ; but to the rear 
the windows open upon four difierent vistas, which run 


30 


FBA-MLEY PAESONAGE. 


down through the forest : four open green rides, which all 
converge together at a large iron gate-way, the barrier 
which divides the private grounds from the Chase. The 
Sowerbys, for many generations, have been rangers of the 
Chase of Chafdicotes, thus having almost as wide an au- 
thority over the crown forest as over their own. But now 
all this is to cease, for the forest will be disforested. 

It was nearly dark as Mark Robarts drove up through 
the avenue of lime-trees to the hall door ; but it was easy 
to see that the house, which was dead and silent as the 
grave through nine months of the year, was now alive in 
all its parts. There were lights in many of the windows, 
and a noise of voices came from the stables, and servants 
were moving about, and dogs barked, and the dark gravel 
before the front steps was cut up with many a coach- 
wheel. 

“ Oh, be that you, sir, Mr. Robarts ?” said a groom, tak- 
ing the parson’s horse by the head, and touching his own 
hat. “ I hope I see your reverence well.” 

“ Quite well. Bob, thank you. All well at Chaldicotes ?” 

“ Pretty bobbish, Mr. Robarts. Deal of life going on 
here now, sir. The bishop and his lady came this morn- 
ing.” 

“ Oh — ^ah — yes. I understood they were to be here. 
Any of tlie young ladies?” 

“ One young lady — Miss Olivia, I think they call her, 
your reverence.” 

“ And how’s Mr. Sowerby ?” 

“ Y ery well, your reverence. He, and Mr. Harold Smith, 
and Mr. Fothergill — that’s the duke’s man of business, you 
know — is getting off their horses now in the stable-yard 
there.” 

“ Home from hunting — eh. Bob ?” 

“ Yes, sir, just home this minute.” And Mr. Robarts 
walked into the house, his j)ortmanteau following on a 
foot-boy’s shoulder. 

It Avill be seen that our young vicar was very intimate 
at Chaldicotes ; so much so that the groom knew him, and 
talked to him about the people in the house. Yes, he was 
intimate there — much more than he had given the Fram- 
ley people to understand. Not that he had willfully and 
overtly deceived any one ; not that he had ever spoken a 
false word about Chaldicotes ; but he had never boasted 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


31 


at home that he and Sowerby were near allies; neither 
had he told them there how often Mr. Sowerby and Lord 
Liifton Avere together in London. Why trouble women 
with such matters? Why annoy so*excellent a woman as 
Lady Lufton ? 

And then Mr. Sowerby was one whose intimacy few 
young men Avould wish to reject. He was fifty, and had 
lived, perhaps, not the most salutary life ; but he dressed 
young, and usually looked Avell. He Avas bald, Avith a 
good forehead, and sparkling moist eyes. He Avas a clever 
man and a pleasant companion, and always good-humored 
when it so suited him. He was a gentleman, too, of high 
breeding and good birth, whose ancestors had been known 
in that county — longer, the farmers around would boast, 
than those of any other land-OAvner in it, unless it be the 
Thornes of Ullathorne, or perhaps the Greshams of Gresh- 
amsbury — much longer than the De Courcys at Courcy 
Castle. As for the Duke of Omnium, he, comparatively 
speaking, Avas a new man. 

And then he was a member of Parliament, a friend of 
some men in power, and of others Avho might be there; a 
man Avho could talk about the Avorld as one knowing the 
matter of which he talked. And, moreover, Avhatever 
might be his ways of life at other times, Avhen in the pres- 
ence of a clergyman he rarely made himself offensive to 
clerical tastes. He neither swore, nor brought his vices 
on the carpet, nor sneered at the faith of the Church. If 
he was no Churchman himself, he at least kneAV how to 
live with those Avho were. 

How was it possible that such a one as our vicar should 
not relish the intimacy of Mr. SoAverby ? It might be A^ery 
well, he would say to himself, for a Avoman like Lady Lut- 
ton to turn up her nose at him; for Lady Lufton, who 
spent ten months of the year at Framley Court, and who 
during those ten months, and, for the matter of that, dur- 
ing the tAVO months also Avhich she spent in London, saw 
no one out of her own set. Women did not understand 
such things, the vicar said to himself ; even his OAvn wife 
— good, and nice, and sensible, and intelligent as she was 
— even she did not understand that a man in the world 
must meet all sorts of men, and that in these days it did 
not do for a clergyman to be a hermit. 

’Twas thus that Mark Robarts argued Avhen he found 


32 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


himself called upon to defend himself before the bar of his 
own conscience for going to Chaldicotes and increasing his 
intimacy with Mr. Sowerby. He did know that Mr. Sow- 
erby was a dangerous man; he was aware that he was 
over head and ears in debt, and that he had already en- 
tangled young Lord Lufton in some pecuniary embarrass- 
ment ; his conscience did tell him that it would be well for 
him, as one of Christ’s soldiers, to look out for companions 
of a dilferent stamp. But, nevertheless, he went to Chaldi- 
cotes, not satisfied with himself indeed, but repeating to him- 
self a great many arguments why he should be so satisfied. 

He was shown into the drawing-room at once, and there 
he found Mrs. Harold Smith, with Mrs. and Miss Proudie, 
and a lady whom he had never before seen, and whose 
name he did not at first hear mentioned. 

“ Is that Mr. Robarts ?” said Mrs. Harold Smith, getting 
up to greet him, and screening her pretended ignorance 
under the veil of the darkness. “And have you really 
driven over four-and-twenty miles of Barsetshire* roads on 
such a day as this to assist us in our little difficulties ? 
Well, we can promise you gratitude, at any rate.” 

And then the vicar shook hands with Mrs. Proudie in 
that deferential manner which is due from a vicar to his 
bishop’s -wife, and Mrs. Proudie returned the greeting with 
all that smiling condescension which a bishop’s wife should 
show to a vicar. Miss Proudie was not quite so civil. 
Had Mr. Robarts been still unmarried, she also could have 
smiled sweetly; but she had been exercising smiles on 
clergymen too long to waste them now on a married par- 
ish parson. 

“And what ai’e the difficulties, Mrs. Smith, in which I 
am to assist you ?” 

“We have six or seven gentlemen here, Mr. Robarts, 
and they always go out hunting before breakfast, and they 
never come back — I was going to say — till after dinner. 
I wish it were so, for then we should not have to wait for 
them.” 

“ Excepting Mr. Supplehouse, you know,” said the un- 
known lady, in a loud voice. 

“ And he is generally shut up in the library, writing ar- 
ticles.” 

^ “ He’d be better employed if he were trying to break 
his neck like the others,” said the unknown lady. 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


33 


“ Only he would never succeed,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. 
“ But perhaps, Mr. Roharts, you are as bad as the rest ; 
perhaps you, too, will be hunting to-morrow.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Smith !” said Mrs. Proudie, in a tone 
denoting slight reproach and modified horror. 

“Oh! I forgot. No, of course, you won’t be hunting, 
Mr. Roharts ; you’ll only be wishing that you could.” 

“ Why can’t he ?” said the lady with the loud voice. 

“ My dear Miss Dunstable ! a clergyman hunt while he 
is staying in the same house with the bishop ? Think of 
the proprieties !” 

“ Oh — ah ! The bishop wouldn’t like it — wouldn’t he ? 
Now do tell me, sir, what would the bishop do to you if 
you .did hunt ?” 

“ It would depend upon his mood at the time, madam,” 
said Mr. Roharts. “ If that were very stern, he might per- 
haps have me beheaded before the palace gates.” 

Mrs. Proudie drew herself up in her chair, showing that 
she did not like the tone of the conversation, and Miss 
Proudie fixed her eyes vehemently on her book, showing 
that Miss Dunstable and her conversation were both be- 
neath her notice. 

“ If these gentlemen do not mean to break their necks 
to-night,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, “ I wish they’d let us 
know it. It’s half past six already.” 

And then Mr. Robarts gave them to understand that no 
such catastrophe could be looked for that day, as Mr. Sow- 
erby and the other sportsmen were within the stable-yard 
when he entered the door. 

“ Then, ladies, we may as well dress,” said Mrs. Harold 
Smith. IBut, as she moved toward the door, it opened, 
and a short gentleman, with a slow, quiet step, entered the 
room, but was not yet to be distinguished through the 
dusk by the eyes of Mr. Robarts. “ Oh ! bishop, is that 
you ?” said Mrs. Smith. “ Here is one of the luminaries 
of your diocese.” And then the bishop, feeling through 
the dark, made his way up to the vicar and shook him cord- 
ially by the hand. “ He was delighted to meet Mr. Rob- 
arts at Chaldicotes,” he said — “quite delighted. Was he 
not going to preach on behalf of the Papuan Mission next 
Sunday? Ah! so he, the bishop, had heard. It was a 
good work — an excellent work.” And then Dr. Proudie 
expressed himself as much grieved that he could not re- 


34 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


main at Chaldicotes and hear the sermon. It was plain 
that his bishop thought no ill of him on account of his in- 
timacy with Mr. Sowerby. But then he felt in his own 
heart that he did not much regard his bishop’s opinion. 

“ Ah ! Robarts, I’m delighted to see you,” said Mr. Sow- 
erby, when they met on the drawing-room rug before din- 
ner. “ You know Harold Smith ? Yes, of course you do. 
Well, who else is there? Oh! Supplehouse. Mr. Supple- 
house, allow me to introduce to you my friend Mr. Rob- ■ 
arts. It is he who will extract the five-pound note out of 
your pocket next Sunday for these poor Papuans whom we 
are going to Christianize — that is, if Harold Smith does not 
finish the work out of hand at his Saturday lecture. And, 
Robarts, you have seen the bishop, of course this he said 
in a whisper. “ A fine thing to be a bishop, isn’t it ? I 
wish I had half your chance. But, my dear fellow, I’ve 
made such a mistake ; I haven’t got a bachelor parson for 
Miss Proudie. .You must help me out, and take her in to 
dinner.” And then the great gong sounded, and off they 
went in pairs. 

At dinner Mark found himself seated between Miss 
Proudie and the lady whom he had heard named as Miss 
Dunstable. Of the former he was not very fond, and, in 
spite of his host’s petition, was not inclined to play bache- 
lor |3arson for her benefit. With the other lady he would 
willingly have chatted during the dinner, only that every 
body else at table seemed to be intent on doing the same 
thing. She was neither young, nor beautiful, nor pecul- 
iarly ladylike, yet she seemed to enjoy a popularity which 
must have excited the envy of Mr. Supplehouse, and which 
certainly was not altogether to the taste of Mrs. Proudie, 
who, however, f^ted her as much as did the others, so that 
our clergyman found himself unable to obtain more than 
an inconsiderable share of the lady’s attention. 

“ Bishop,” said she, speaking across the table, “ we have 
missed you so all day !* we have had no one on earth to say 
a word to uS.” 

“My dear Miss Dunstable, had I known that — But I 
really was engaged on business of some importance.” 

“ I don’t believe in business of importance : do you, Mrs. 
Smith?” 

“ Do I not ?” said Mrs. Smith. “ If you were married 
to Mr. Harold Smith for one week, you’d believe in it.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


35 


“Should I, now? What a pity that I can’t have that 
chance of improving my faith. But you are a man of busi- 
ness, also, Mr. Supplehouse— so they tell me.” And she 
turned to her neighbor on her right hand. 

“ I can not compare myself to Harold Smith,” said he, 
“ but perhaps I may equal the bishop.” 

“ What does a man do, now, when he sets himself down 
to business? How does he set about it? What are his 
^^'th?” ^ blotting paper, I suppose, to begin 

“ That depends, I should say, on his trade. A shoemaker 
begins by waxing his thread.” 

“ And Mr. Harold Smith — ?” 

“ By counting up his yesterday’s figures, generally, I 
should say, or else by unrolling a ball of red tape. Well- 
docketed papers and statistical facts are his forte.” 

“ And what does a bishop do ? Can you tell me that?” 

“ He sends forth to his clergy either blessings or blow- 
ings-up, according to the state of his digestive organs. 
But Mrs. Proudie can explain all that to you with the 
greatest accuracy.” 

“ Can she, now ? I understand what you mean, but I 
don’t believe a word of it. The bishop manages his own 
affairs himself, quite as much as you do, or Mr. Harold 
Smith.” 

“ I, jMiss Dunstable ?” 

“ Yes, you.” 

“ But I, unluckily, have not a wife to manage them for 
me.” 

“ Then you should not laugh at those who have, for you 
don’t know what you may come to yourself when you’re 
married.” 

Mr. Supplehouse began to make a pretty speech, saying 
that he would be delighted to incur any danger in that re- 
spect to which he might be subjected by the companion- 
ship of Miss Dunstable. But, before he was half through 
it, she had turned her back upon him, and began a conver- 
sation with Mark Robarts. 

“ Have you much work in your parish, Mr. Robarts ?” 
she asked. Now Mark was not aware that she knew his 
name, or the fact of his having a parisl;, and was rather 
surprised by the question. And he had not quite liked 
the tone in which she had seemed to speak of the bishop 


36 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


and his work. His desire for her farther acquaintance 
was therefore somewhat moderated, and he was not pre- 
pared to answer her question with much zeal. 

“All parish clergymen have plenty of work, if they 
choose to do it.” 

“ Ah ! that is it ; is it not, Mr. Robarts ? If they choose 
to do it ? A great many do — many that I know do ; and 
see what a result they have. But many neglect it — and 
see what a result they have. I think it ought to be the 
happiest life that a man can lead, that of a parish clergy- 
man, with a wife and family, and a sufficient income.” 

“I think it is,” said Mark Robarts, asking himself 
whether the contentment accruing to him from such bless- 
ings had made him satisfied at all points. He had all 
these things of which Miss Dunstable spoke, and yet he 
had told his wife, the other day, that he could not aflbrd 
to neglect the acquaintance of a rising politician like Har- 
old Smith. 

“ What I find fault with is this,? continued Miss Dun- 
stable, “ that we expect clergymen to do their duty, and 
don’t give them a sufficient income — ^give them hardly any 
income at all. Is it not a scandal that an educated gentle- 
man with a family should be made to work half his life, 
and perhaps the whole, for a pittance of seventy pounds a 
year ?” 

Mark said that it was a scandal, and thought of Mr. 
Evan Jones and his daughter — and thought also of his own 
worth, and his own house, and his own nine hundred a 
year. 

“ And yet you clergymen are so ^ proud — aristocratic 
would be the genteel word, I know — that you won’t take 
the money of common, ordinary poor people. You must 
be paid from land and endowments, from tithe and Church 
property. You can’t bring yourself to work for what you 
earn, as lawyers and doctors do. It is better that curates 
should starve than undergo such ignominy as that.” 

“It is a long subject. Miss Dunstable.” 

“ A very long one ; and that means that I am not to say 
any more about it.” 

“ I did not mean that exactly.” 

^ “ Oh ! but you did, though, Mr. Robarts ; and I can take 
a hint of that kind when I get it. You clergymen like to 
keep those long subjects for your sermons, when no one 


TRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


37 


can answer you. Now, if I have a longing heart’s desire 
for any thing at all in this world, it is to be able to get up 
into a pulpit and preach a sermon.” 

“You can’t conceive how soon that appetite would pall 
upon you after its first indulgence.” 

“ That would depend upon whether I could get people 
to listen to me. It does not pall upon Mr. Spurgeon, I 
suppose.” Then her attention was called away by some 
question from Mr. Sowerby, and Mark Robarts found him- 
self bound to address his conversation to Miss Proudie. 
Miss Proudie, however, was not thankful, and gave him lit- 
tle but monosyllables for his pains. 

“ Of course you know Harold Smith is going to give us 
a lecture about these islanders,” Mr. Sowerby said to him, 
as they sat round the fire over their wine after dinner. 
Mark said that he had been so informed, and should be de- 
lighted to be one of the listeners. 

“You are bound to do that, as he is going to listen to 
you the day afterward — or, at any rate, to pretend to do 
so, which is as much as you will do for him. It’ll be a 
terrible bore — the lecture I mean, not the sermon.” And 
he spoke very low into his friend’s ear. “ Fancy having* 
to drive ten miles after dusk, and ten miles back, to hear 
Harold Smith talk for two hours about Borneo ! One must 
do it, you know.” 

“ I dare say it will be very interesting.” 

“My dear fellow, you haven’t undergv>ne so many of 
these things as I have. But he’s right to do it. It’s his 
line of life ; and when a man begins a thing he ought to 
go on with it. Where’s Lufton all this time ?” 

“ In Scotland when I last heard from him ; but he’s prob- 
ably at Melton now.” 

“ It’s deuced shabby of him, not hunting here in his own 
county. He escapes all the bore of going to lectures, and 
giving feeds to the neighbors ; that’s why he treats us so. 
He has no idea of his duty, has he ?” 

“ Lady Lufton does all that, you know.” 

“ I wish I’d a Mrs. Sowerby mere to do it for me. But 
then Lufton has no constituents to look after — lucky dog ! 
By-the-by, has he spoken to you about selling that outly- 
ing bit of land of his in Oxfordshire ? It belongs to tho 
Lufton property, and yet it doesn’t. In my mind, it gives 
more trouble than it’s worth.” 


38 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


Lord Lufton had spoken to Mark about this sale, and 
had explained to him that such a sacrifice was absolutely 
necessary, in consequence of certain pecuniary transactions 
between him. Lord Lufton, and Mr. Sowerby. But it was 
found imj^racticable to complete the business without Lady 
Lufton’s knowledge, and her son had commissioned Mr. 
Robarts not only to inform her ladyship, but to talk her 
over and to appease her wrath. This commission he had 
not yet attempted to execute, and it was probable that 
this visit to Chaldicotes would not do much to facilitate 
the business. 

“ They are the most magnificent islands under the sun,” 
said Harold Smith to the bishop. 

“ Are they, indeed ?” said the bishop, opening his eyes 
wide, and assuming a look of intense interest. 

“ And the most intelligent people.” 

“ Dear me !” said the bishop. 

“All they want is guidance, encouragement, instruc- 
tion — ” 

“ And Christianity,” suggested the bishop. 

“ And Christianity, of course,” said Mr. Smith, remem- 
bering that he was speaking to a dignitary of the Church. 
It was well to humor such people, Mr. Smith thought. 
But the Christianity was to be done in the Sunday sermon, 
and was not part of his work. 

“And how do you intend to begin with them?” asked 
Mr. Supplehouse, the business of whose life it had been to 
suggest difficulties. 

“Begin with them — oh — why — it’s very easy to begin 
with them. The difficulty is to go on with them after the 
money is all spent. We’ll begin by explaining to them 
the benefits of civilization.” 

“ Capital plan !” said Mr. Sujoplehouse. “ But how do 
you set about it. Smith ?” 

“ How do we set about it ? How did we set about it 
with Australia and America ? It is very easy to criticise ; 
but in such matters the great thing is to put one’s shoul- 
der to the wheel.” 

“We sent our felons to Australia,” said Supplehouse, 
“and they began the work for us. And as to America, 
we exterminated the people instead of civilizing them.” 

“We did not exterminate the inhabitants of India,” said 
Harold Smith, angrily. 


FBAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


39 


“Nor have Ave attempted to Christianize them, as the 
bishop so properly wishes to do with your islanders.” 

“ Supplehouse, you are not fair,” said Mr. Sowerby, 
“ neither to Harold Smith nor to us ; you are making him 
rehearse his lecture, which is bad for him, and making us 
hear the rehearsal, which is bad for us.” 

“ Supplehouse belongs to a clique which monopolizes the 
Avisdom of England,” said Harold Smith, “ or, at any rate, 
thinks that it does. But the Avorst of them is that they 
are given to talk leading articles.” 

“ Better that than talk articles which are not leading,” 
said Mr. Supplehouse. “ Some first-class official men do 
that.” 

“ Shall I meet you at the duke’s next week, Mr. Bob- 
arts ?” said the bishop to him, soon after they had gone 
into the drawing-room. 

Meet him at the duke’s ! the established enemy of Bar- 
setshire mankind, as Lady Lufton regarded his grace ! No 
idea of going to the duke’s had ever entered our hero’s 
mind, nor had he been aware that the duke Avas about to 
entertain any one. 

“ No, my lord, I think not. Indeed, I have no acquaint- 
ance Avith his grace.” 

“ Oh — ah ! I did not know. Because Mr. Sowerby is 
going, and so are the Harold Smiths, and, I think, Mr. 
Supplehouse. An excellent man is the duke — that is, as 
regards all the county interests,” added the bishop, remem- 
bering that the moral character of his bachelor grace Avas 
not the very best in the world. 

And then his lordship began to ask some questions 
about the Church afiairs of Framley, in which a little in- 
terest as to Framley Court Avas also mixed up, when he 
Avas interrupted by a rather sharp voice, to which he in- 
stantly attended. 

“ Bishop,” said the rather sharp voice ; and the bishop 
trotted across the room to the back of the sofa on which 
his wife was sitting. 

“Miss Dunstable thinks that she Avill be able to come to 
us for a couple of days after we leave the duke’s.” 

“ I shall be delighted above all things,” said the bishop, 
bowing low to the dominant lady of the day ; for be it 
known to all men that Miss Dunstable was the great heir- 
ess of that name. 


40 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“ Mrs. Proudie is so very kind as to say that she will 
take me in, with my poodle, parrot, and pet old woman.” 

“I tell Miss Dunstable that we shall have quite room 
for any of her suite,” said Mrs. Proudie, “ and that it will 
give us no trouble.” 

“‘The labor we delight in physics pain,’” said the gal- 
lant bishop, bowing low, and putting his hand upon his 
heart. 

In the mean time, Mr. Fothergill had got hold of Mark 
Robarts. Mr. Fothergill was a gentleman, and a magis- 
trate of the county, but he occupied the position of man- 
aging man on the Duke of Omnium’s estates. He was not 
exactly his agent — that is to say, he did not receive his 
rents ; but he “ managed” for him, saw people, went about 
the county, wrote letters, supported the electioneering in-, 
terest, did popularity when it was too much trouble for 
the duke to do it himself, and ’was, in fact, invaluable. 
People in West Barsetshire would often say that they did 
not know what 09 i earth the duke would do if it were not 
for Mr. Fothergill. Indeed, Mr. Fothergill was useful to 
the duke. 

“ Mr. Robarts,” he said, “ I am very happy to have the 
l^leasure of meeting you — very happy indeed. I have often 
heard of you from our friend Sowerby.” 

Mark bowed, and said that he was delighted to have the 
honor of making Mr. Fothergill’s acquaintance. 

“I am commissioned by the Duke of Omnium,” contin- 
ued Mr. Fothergill, “ to say how glad he will be if you will 
join his grace’s party at Gatherum Castle next week. The 
bishop will be there, and, indeed, nearly the whole set who 
are here now. The duke would have written when he 
heard that you were to be at Chaldicotes ; but things were 
hardly quite arranged then, so his grace has left it for me 
to tell you how happy he will be to make your acquaint- 
ance in his own house. I have spoken to Sowerby,” con- 
tinued Mr. Fothergill, “and he very much hopes that you 
will be able to join us.” 

Mark felt that his face became red when this proposition 
Avas made to him. The party in the county to which he 
properly belonged — he and his wife, and all that made him 
happy and respectable — looked upon the Duke of Omnium 
with horror and amazement; and now he had absolutely 
received an invitation to the duke’s house ! A proposition 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


41 


was made to him that he should be numbered among the 
duke’s friends ! 

And though in one sense he was sorry that the proposi- 
tion was made to him, yet in another he was proud of it. It 
is not every young man, let his profession be what it may, 
who can receive overtures of friendship from dukes with- 
out some elation. Mark, too, had risen in the world, as 
far as he had yet risen, by knowing great people ; and he 
certainly had an ambition to rise higher. I will not de- 
grade him by calling him a tuft-hunter, but he undoubted- 
ly had a feeling that the paths most pleasant for a cler- 
gyman’s feet were those which were trodden by the great 
ones of the earth. 

Nevertheless, at the moment he declined the duke’s in- 
vitation. He was very much flattered, he said, but the du- 
ties of his parish would require him to return direct from 
Chaldicotes 'to Framley. 

“ You need not give me an answer to-night, you know,” 
said Mr. Fothergill. “ Before the week is past, we will 
talk it over with Sowerby and the bishop. It will be a 
thousand pities, Mr. Robarts, if you will allow me to say 
so, that you should neglect such an opportunity of know- 
ing his grace.” 

When Mark went to bed, his mind was still set against 
going to the duke’s ; but, nevertheless, he did feel that it 
was a pity that he should not do so. After all, was it nec- 
essary that he should obey Lady Lufton in all things ? 


CHAPTER IV. 

A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE. 

It is no doubt very wrong to long after a naughty thing ; 
but, nevertheless, we all do so. One may say that hanker- 
ing after naughty things is the very essence of the evil into 
which we have been precipitated by Adam’s fall. When 
we confess that we are all sinners, we confess that we all 
long after naughty things. 

And ambition is a great vice — as Mark Antony told us a 
long time ago — a great vice, no doubt, if the ambition of 
the man be with reference to his own advancement, and 
not to the advancement of others. But then, how many 


42 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


of US are there who are not ambitious in this vicious man- 
ner ? 

And there is nothing viler than the desire to know great 
people — people of great rank I should say ; nothing worse 
than the hunting of titles and worshiping of wealth. We 
all know this, and say it every day of our lives. But, pre- 
suming* that a way into the society of Park Lane was open 
to us, and a way also into that of Bedford Row, how many 
of us are there who would prefer Bedford Row because it 
is so vile to worship wealth and title ? 

I am led into these rather trite remarks by the necessity 
of putting forward some sort of excuse for that frame of 
mind in which the Rev. Mark Robarts awoke on the morn- 
ing after his arrival at Chaldicotes ; and I trust that the 
fact of his being a clergyman will not be allowed to press 
against him unfairly. Clergymen are subject to the same 
passions as other men, and, as fai' as I can see, ^ive way to 
them, in one line or in another, almost as frequently. Ev- 
ery clergyman should, by canonical rule, feel a personal 
disinclination to . a bishopric, but yet we do not believe 
that such personal disinclination is generally very strong. 

Mark’s first thoughts when he woke on that morning 
flew back to Mr. Fothergill’s invitation. The duke had 
sent a special message to say how peculiarly glad he, the 
duke, would be to make acquaintance with him, the par- 
son ! How much of this message had been of Mr. Fother- 
gill’s own manufacture, that Mark Robarts did not com 
sider. 

He had obtained a living at an age when other young 
clergymen are beginning to think of a curacy, and he had 
obtained such a living as middle-aged parsons in their 
dreams regard as a possible Paradise for their old years. 
Of course he thought that all these good things had been 
the results of his own peculiar merits. Of course he felt 
that he was different from other parsons — more fitted by 
nature for intimacy with great persons, more urbane, more 
polished, and more richly endowed with modern clerical 
well-to-do aptitudes. He was grateful to Lady Lufton for 
what she had done for him, but perhaps not so grateful as 
he should have been. 

At any rate, he was not Lady Lufton’s,servant, nor even 
her dependent. So much he had repeated to himself on 
many occasions, and had gone so far as to hint the same 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


43 


idea to his ,wife. In his career as parish priest he must in 
most things be the judge of his own actions, and in many 
also it Avas his duty to be the judge of those of his patron- 
ess. The fact of Lady Lufton having placed him in the 
living could by no means make her the proper judge of his 
actions. This he often said to himself ; and he said as oft- 
en that Lady Lufton certainly had a hankering after such 
a judgment-seat. 

Of whom generally did prime ministers and official big 
wigs think it expedient to make bishops and deans ? Was 
it not, as a rule, of those clergymen Avho had shown them- 
selves able to perform their clerical duties efficiently, and 
able also to take their place with ease in high society ? He 
was very well off certainly at Framley, but he could never 
hope for any thing beyond Framley if he allowed himself to 
regard Lady Lufton as a bugbear. Putting Lady Lufton 
and her prejudices out of the question, was there any rea- 
son Avhy he ought not to accept the duke’s invitation? 
He could not see that there was any such reason. If any 
one could be a better judge on such a subject than him- 
self, it must be his bishop, and it Avas clear that the bishop 
Avished him to go to Gatherum Castle. 

The matter Avas still left open to him. Mr. Fothergill 
had especially explained that, and, therefore, his ultimate 
decision Avas as yet Avithin his OAvn power. Such a visit 
Avould cost him some money, for he knew that a man does 
not stay at great houses without expense; and then, in. 
spite of his good income, he was not very flush of money. 
He had been doAvn this year Avith Lord Lufton in Scot- 
land. Perhaps it might be more prudent for him to re- 
turn home. 

But then an idea came to him* that it behooved him as a 
man and a priest to break through that Framley thralldom 
under Avhich he felt that he did to a certain extent exist. 
Was it not the fact that he was about to decline this invi- 
tation from fear of Lady Lufton? and if so, Avas that a mo- 
tive by Avhich he ought to be actuated? It Avas incum- 
bent on him to rid himself of that feeling. And in this 
spirit he got up and dressed. 

There Avas hunting again on that day ; and as the hounds 
were to meet near Chaldicotes, and to draw some coverts 
lying on the verge of the chase, the ladies were to go in 
carriages through the drives of the forest, and Mr. Rob- 


44 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


arts was to escort them oil horseback. Indeed, it was one 
of those hunting-days got up rather for the ladies than for the 
sport. Great nuisances they are to steady, middle-aged 
hunting men; but the young fellows like them because 
they have thereby an opportunity of showing off their 
sporting finery, and of doing a little flirtation on horse- 
back. The bishop, also, had been minded to be of the 
party ; so, at least, he had said on the previous evening ; 
and a place in one of the carriages had been set apart for 
him ; but since that, he and Mrs. Proudie had discussed 
the matter in private, and at breakfast his lordship declared 
that he had changed his mind. 

Mr. Sowerby was one of those men who are known to 
be very poor — as poor as debt can make a man — ^but who, 
nevertheless, enjoy all the luxuries which money can give. 
It was believed that he could not live in England out of 
jail but for his protection as a member of Parliament ; and 
yet it seemed that there w^as no end to his horses and car- 
riages, his servants and retinue. He had been at this work 
for a great many years, and practice, they say, makes per- 
fect. Such companions are very dangerous. There is no 
cholera, no yellow fever, no small-pox more contagious 
than debt. If one lives habitually among embarrassed 
men, one catches it to a certainty. Ho one had injured 
the community in this way more fatally than Mr. Sowerby. 
But still he carried on the game himself ; and now on this 
morning carriages and horses thronged at his gate, as 
though he were as substantially rich as his friend the Duke 
of Omnium. 

“ Robarts, my dear fellow,” said Mr. Sowerby, when they 
wei’e well under way down one of the glades of the forest 
— for the place where the hounds met was some four or 
five miles from the house of Chaldicotes — “ ride on with 
me a moment. I want to speak to you ; and, if I stay be- 
hind, we shall never get to the hounds.” So Mark, who 
had come expressly to escort the ladies, rode on alongside 
of Mr. Sowerby in his pink coat. 

“ My dear fellow, Fothergill tells me that you have some 
hesitation about going to Gatherum Castle.” 

“Well, I did decline, certainly. You know I am not a 
man of pleasure, as you are. I have some duties to attend 
to.” 

“ Gammon !” said Mr. Sowerby ; and as he said it he 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


45 


looked with a kind of derisive smile into the clergyman’s 
face. 

“ It is easy enough to say that, Sowerby ; and perhaps I 
have no right to expect that you should understand me.” 

“ Ah ! but I do understand you, and I say it is gammon. 
I would be the last man in the world to ridicule your scru- 
ples about duty, if this hesitation on your part arose from 
any such scruple. But answer me honestly, do you not 
know that such is not the case ?” 

“ I know nothing of the kind.” 

“ Ah ! but I think you do. If you persist in refusing 
this invitation, will it not be because you are afraid of 
making Lady Lufton angry ? I do not know what there 
can be in that woman that she is abl-e to hold both you and 
Lufton in leading-strings.” 

Robarts, of course, denied the charge, and protested that 
he was not to be taken back to his own parsonage by any 
fear of Lady Lufton. But, though he made such protest 
with warmth, he knew that he did so ineffectually. Sow- 
erby only smiled, and said that the proof of the pudding 
was in the eating. 

^‘What is the good of a man keeping a curate if it be 
not to save him from that sort of drudgery?” he asked. 

“ Drudgery ! If I were a drudge, how could I be here 
to-day ?” 

“ W ell, Robarts, look here. I am speaking now, perhaps, 
with more of the energy of an old friend than circumstan- 
ces fully warrant ; but I am an older man than you, and, 
as I have a regard for ybu, I do not like to see you throw 
up a good game when it is in your hands.” 

“ Oh, as far as that goes, Sowerby, I need hardly tell you 
that I appreciate your kindness.” 

“ If you are content,” continued the man of the world, 
“ to live at Framley all your life, and to warm yourself in 
the sunshine of the dowager there, why, in such case, it 
may perhaps be useless for you to extend the circle of your 
friends ; but if you have higher ideas than these, I think 
you will be very wrong to omit the present opportunity 
of going to the duke’s. I never knew the duke go so 
much out of his way to be civil to a clergyman as he has 
done in this instance.” 

“ I am sure I am very much obliged to him.” 

“ The fact is, that you may, if you please, make yourself 


46 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


popular in the county ; but you can not do it by obeying 
all Lady Lufton’s behests. She is a dear old woman, I am 
sure.” 

“ She is, Sowerby ; and you would say so, if you knew 
her.” 

“ I don’t doubt it ; but it would not do for you or me 
to live exactly according to her ideas. Now here, in this 
case, the bishop of the diocese is to be one of the party, 
and he has, I believe, already expressed a wish that you 
should be another.” 

“ He asked me if I were going.” 

“Exactly; and Archdeacon Grantley will be there.” 

“Will he?” asked Mark. Now that would be a great 
point gained, for Archdeacon Grantleywas a close friend 
of Lady Lufton. 

“ So I understand from Fothergill. Indeed, it will be 
very •wrong of you not to go, and I tell you so plainly ; 
and, what is more, when you talk about your duty — you 
having a curate as you have — why, it is gammon.” These 
last words he spoke looking back over his shoulder as he 
stood up in his stirrups, for he had caught the eye of the 
huntsman who was surrounded by his hounds, and was 
now trotting on to join him. 

During a great portion of the day Mark found himself 
riding by the side of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady leaned 
back in her carriage ; and Mrs. Proudie smiled on him 
graciously, though her daughter would not do so. Mrs. 
Proudie was fond of having an attendant clergyman ; and 
as it was evident that Mr. Robarts lived among nice peo- 
ple — titled dowagers, members of Parliament, and people 
of that sort — she was quite willing to install him as a sort 
of honorary chaplain pro tern. 

“ I’ll tell you what we have settled, Mrs. Harold Smith 
and I,” said Mrs. Proudie to him. “ This lecture at Bar- 
ch ester will be so late on Saturday evening that you had 
all better come and dine with us.” 

Mark bowed and thanked her, and declared that he 
should be very happy to make one of such a party. Even 
Lady Lufton could not object to this, although she was not 
especially fond of Mrs. Proudie. 

“ And then they are to sleep at the hotel. It will really 
be too late for ladies to think of going back so far at this 
time of the year. I told Mrs. Harold Smith, and Miss Dun- 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


47 


stable too, that Ave could manage to make room, at any 
rate, for them. But they will not leave the other ladies ; 
so they go to the hotel for that night. But, Mr. Robarts, 
the bishop will never allow you to stay at the inn, so of 
course you will take a bed at the palace.” 

It immediately occurred to Mark that as the lecture was 
to be given on Saturday evening, the next morning would 
be Sunday, and on that Sunday he would have to preach at 
Chaldicotes. “ I thought they were all going to return the 
same night,” said he. 

“Well, they did intend it; but you see Mrs. Smith is 
afraid.” 

“ I should have to get back here on the Sunday morning, 
Mrs. Proudie.” 

“ Ah ! yes, that is bad — very bad indeed. No one dis- 
likes any interference with the Sabbath more than I do. 
Indeed, if I am particular about any thing, it is about that. 
But some works are Avorks of necessity, Mr. Robarts ; are 
they not? Noav you must necessarily be back at Chaldi- 
cotes on Sunday morning !” and so the matter Avas settled. 
Mrs. Proudie was very firm in general in the matter of 
Sabbath-day observances ; but Avlien she had to deal aa ith 
such persons as Mrs. Harold Smith, it was expedient that 
she should give Avay a little. “ You can start as soon as 
it’s daylight, you know, if you like it, Mr. Robarts,” said 
Mrs. Proudie. 

There Avas not much to boast of as to the hunting, but it 
was a very pleasant day for the ladies. The men rode up 
and doAvn the grass roads through the chase, sometimes in 
the greatest possible hurry, as though they never could go 
quick enough; and then the coachmen Avould drive very 
fast also, though they did not knoAV why, for a fast pace 
of movement is another of those contagious diseases. And 
then again the sportsmen would move at an undertaker’s 
pace, when the fox had traversed and the hounds would 
be at a loss to know Avhich Avas the hunt and Avhich Avas 
the heel ; and then the carriage also would go slowly, and 
the ladies Avould stand up and talk. And then the time 
for lunch came ; and altogether the day went by pleasant- 
ly enough. 

“ And so that’s hunting, is it ?” said Miss Dunstable. 

“Yes, that’s hunting,” said Mr. SoAverby. 

“ I did not see any gentleman do any thing that I could 


48 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE> 


not do myself, except there was one young man slipped off 
into the mud ; and I shouldn’t like that.” 

“ But there was no breaking of bones, was there, my 
dear ?” said Mrs. Harold Smith. 

“ And nobody caught any foxes,” said Miss Dunstable. 
“ The fact is, Mrs. Smith, that I don’t think much more 
of their sport than I do of their business. I shall take to 
hunting a pack of hounds myself after this.” 

“ Do, my dear, and I’ll be your whipper-in. I wonder 
whether Mrs. Proudie would join us.” 

“ I shall be writing to the duke to-night,” said Mr. Foth- 
ergill to Mark, as they were all riding up to the stable- 
yard together. “You will let me tell his grace that you 
will accept his invitation — will you not ?” 

“ Upon my word, the duke is very kind,” said Mark. 

“ He is very anxious to know you, I can assure you,” 
said Fothergill. 

What could a young flattered fool of a parson do but 
say that he would go ? Mark did say that he would go ; 
and in the course of the evening his friend Mr. Sowerby 
congratulated him, and the bishop joked with him, and 
said that he knew that he would not give up good compa- 
ny so soon ; and Miss Dunstable said she would make him 
her chaplain as soon as Parliament would allow quack doc- 
tors to have such articles — an allusion which Mark did not 
understand, till he learned that Miss Dunstable was herself 
the proprietress of the celebrated Oil of Lebanon, invent- 
ed by her late respected father, and patented by him with 
such wonderful results in the "way of accumulated fortune; 
and Mrs. Proudie made him quite one of their party, talk- 
ing to him about all manner of Church subjects ; and then 
•at last even Miss Proudie smiled on him wlfien she learned 
that he had been thought worthy of a bed at a duke’s 
castle ; and all the world seemed to be open to him. 

But he could not make himself happy that evening. On 
the next morning he must write to his wife ; and he could 
already see the look of painful sorrow which would fall 
upon his Fanny’s brow when she learned that her husband 
was going to be a guest at the Duke of Omnium’s. And 
he must tell her to send him money, and money was scarce. 
And then, as to Lady Lufton, should he send her some 
message or should he not ? In either case he must declare 
war against her. And then did he not owe every thing to 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


49 


Lady Lufton ? And thus, in spite of all his triumphs, he 
could not get himself to bed in a happy frame of mind. 

On the next day, which was Friday, he postponed the 
disagreeable task of writing. Saturday would do as well ; 
and on Saturday morning, before they all started for Bar- 
chester, he did write. And his letter ran as follows : 

“ CnALDicoTES, November^ 185-. 

“ Dearest Love, — You will be astonished when I tell you how gay 
we all are here, and what farther dissipations are in store for us.^ The 
Arabins, as you supposed, are not of our party ; but the Proudies' are — 
as you supposed also. Your suppositions are always right. And what 
will you think when I tell you that I am to sleep at the palace on Sat- 
urday ? You know that there is to be a lecture in Barchester on that 
day. Well, we must all go, of course, as Harold Smith, one of our set 
here, is to give it. And now it turns out that we can not get back the 
same night, because there is no moon ; and Mrs. Bishop would not al- 
low that my cloth should be contaminated by a hotel — very kind and 
considerate, is it not? 

“ But I have a more astounding piece of news for you than this. There 
is to be a great party at Gatherum Castle next week, and they have 
talked me over into accepting an invitation which the duke sent ex- 
pressly to mel I refused at first; but every body here said that my 
doing so would be so strange ; and then they all wanted to know my 
reason. When I came to render it, I did not know what reason I had 
to give. The bishop is going, and he thought it very odd that I should 
not go also, seeing that I was asked. 

“I know what my own darling will think, and I know that she will 
not be pleased, and 1 must put off my defense till I return to her from 
this ogre-land — if ever I do get back alive. But, joking apart, Fanny, 
I think that I should have been wrong to stand out when so much was 
said about it. I should have been seeming to take upon myself to sit in 
judgment upon the duke. I doubt if there be a single clergyman in the 
diocese, under fifty years of age, who would have refused the invitation 
under such circumstances, unless it be Crawley, who is so mad on the 
subject that he thinks it almost wrong to take a walk out of his own 
parish. 

“I must stay at Gatherum Castle over Sunday week — indeed, we 
only go there on Friday. I have written to Jones about the duties. I 
can make it up to him, as I know he wishes to go into Wales at Christ- 
mas. My wanderings will all be over then, and he may go for a couple 
of months if he pleases. I suppose you will take my classes in the 
school on Sunday as well as your own, but pray make them have a good 
fire. If this is too much for you, make Mrs. Podgens take the boys. 
Indeed, I think that will be better. 

“Of course you will tell her ladyship of my whereabouts. Tell her 
from me that as regards the bishop, as well as regarding another great 
personage, the color has been laid on perhaps a little too thickly. Not 
that Lady Lufton would ever like him. Make her understand that my 
going to the duke’s has almost become a matter of conscience with me. 
I have not known how to make it appear that it would be right for me 

c 


50 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


to refuse, without absolutely making a party matter of it. I saw that it 
would be said that I, coming from Lady Lufton’s parish, could not go 
to the Duke of Omnium’s. This I did not choose. 

“I find that I shall want a little more money before I leave here, five 
or ten pounds — say ten pounds. If you can not spare it, get it from 
Davis. He owes me more than that, a good deal. 

‘ ‘ And now God bless and preserve you, my own love. Kiss my dar- 
ling bairns for papa, and give them my blessing. 

“Always and ever your own, M. R.” 

And then there was written on an outside scrap which 
was folded round the full-written sheet of jDaper, “ Make it 
as smooth at Framley Court as possible.’^ 

However strong, and reasonable, and unanswerable the 
body of Mark’s letter may have been, all his hesitation, 
weakness, doubt, and fear were expressed in this short 
postscript. 


CHAPTER y. 

AMxVNTIUM IR^ AMORIS INTEGRATIO. 

And now, with my reader’s consent, I will follow the 
postman Avith that letter to Framley ; not by its OAvn cir- 
cuitous route indeed, or by the same mode of conveyance ; 
for that letter Avent into Earchester by the Courcy night 
mail-cart, Avhich, on its road, passes through the Aullages of 
Uffley and Chaldicotes, reaching Barchester in time for the 
up mail-train to London. By that train the letter was sent 
toAvard the metropolis as for as the junction of the Barset 
branch line, but there it Avas turned in its course, and came 
doAvn again by the main line as for as Silverbridge ; at 
Avhich place, between six and seven in the morning, it was 
shouldered by the Framley footpost messenger, and in duo 
course delivered at the Framley Parsonage exactly as Mrs. 
Robarts had finished reading prayers to the four servants. 
Or I should say rather that such Avould in its usual course 
have been that letter’s destiny. As it was, however, it 
reached Silverbridge on Sunday, and lay there till the 
Monday, as the Framley people have declined their Sunday 
post. And then again, Avhen the letter Avas delivered at 
the parsonage on that wet Monday morning, Mrs. Robarts 
Avas not at home. As we are all aAvare, she was staying 
with her ladyship at Framley Court. 

“ Oh, but it’s mortial Avet,” said tlie shivering postman 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


61 


as ho handed in that and the vicar’s newspaper. The 
vicar was a man of the world, and took the Jupiter. 

“ Come in, Robin postman, and warm theeself a wliile,” 
said Jemima the cook, pushing a stool a little to one side, 
but still well in front of the big kitchen fire. 

“ Well, I dudna jist know how it’ll be. The wery ’edges 
’as eyes, and tells on me in Silverbridge if I so much as 
stops to pick a blackberry.” 

“ There bain’t no hedges here, mon, nor yet no black- 
berries, so sit thee down and Avarm theeself That’s bet- 
ter nor blackberries, I’m thinking,” and she handed him a 
boAvl of tea, Avith a slice of buttered toast. 

Robin postman took the profiered tea, put his dripping 
hat on the ground, and thanked Jemima cook. “But I 
dudna jist knoAV hoAV it’ll be,” said he ; “ only it do pour 
so tarnation heaA'y.” Which among us, O my readers, 
could have Avithstood that temptation ? 

Such AA^as the circuitous course of Mark’s letter ; but as 
it left Chaldicotes on Saturday OA'ening, and reached Mrs. 
Robarts on the folloAving morning, or Avould have done but 
for that intervening Sunday, doing all its peregrinations 
during the night, it may be held that its course of trans- 
port Avas not inconveniently arranged. We, hoAvever, Avill 
travel by a much shorter route. 

Robin, in the course of his daily travels, passed first the 
post-office at Framley, then the Framley Court back en- 
trance, and then the vicar’s house, so that on this Avet 
morning Jemima cook Avas not able to make use of his 
services in transporting this letter back to her mistress, 
for Robin had got another village before him expectant of 
its letters. 

“ Why didn’t thee leave it, mon, Avith Mr. Applejohn at 
the Court ?” Mr. Applejohn AA^as the butler Avho took the 
letter-bag. “ Thee knoAv’st as Iioav missus Avas there.” 

And then Robin, mindful of the tea and toast, explained 
to her courteously Iioav the laAV made it imperative on him 
to bring the letter to the very house that was indicated, 
let the OAvner of the letter be Avhere she might ; and he 
laid doAvn the laAV very satisfactorily, Avith sundry long- 
Avorded quotations. Not to much effect, however, for the 
housemaid called him an oaf ; and Robin Avould decidedly 
have had the Avorst of it had not the gardener come in and 
taken his part. “ They Avomen knoAVS nothin’, and under- 


52 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


stands nothin’,” said the gardener. “ Give us hold of the 
letter. I’ll take it up to the house. It’s the master’s fist.” 
And then Robin postman went on one way, and the gar- 
dener he went the other. The gardener never disliked an 
excuse for going up to the Court gardens, even on so wet 
a day as this. 

Mrs. Robarts was sitting over the drawing-room fire 
with Lady Meredith when her husband’s letter was brought 
to her. The Framley Court letter-bag had been discussed 
at breakfast ; but that was now nearly an hour since, and 
Lady Lufton, as was her wont, was away in her own i*oom 
writing her own letters, and looking after her own mat- 
ters ; for Lady Lufton was a person who dealt in figures 
herself, and understood business almost as well as Harold 
Smith. And on that morning she also had received a let- 
ter which had displeased her not a little. Whence arose 
this displeasure neither Mrs. Robarts nor Lady Meredith 
knew^ ; but her ladyship’s brow had grown black at break- 
fast-time ; she had bundled up an ominous-looking epistle 
into lier bag without speaking of it, and had left the room 
immediately that breakfast was over. 

“ There’s something wrong,” said Sir George. 

“Mamma does fret herself so much about Ludovic’s 
money-matters,” said Lady Meredith. Ludovic was Lord 
Lufton — Ludovic Lufton, Baron Lufton of Lufton, in the 
county of Oxfordshire. 

“And yet I don’t think Lufton gets much astray,” said 
Sir George, as he sauntered out of the room. “Well, 
Justy, we’ll put off going then till to-morrow ; but remem- 
ber, it must be the first train.” Lady Meredith said she 
would remember, and then they went into the drawing- 
room, and there Mrs. Robarts received her letter. 

Fanny, when she read it, hardly at first realized to her- 
self the idea that her husband, the clergyman of Framley, 
the family clerical friend of Lady Lufton’s establishment, 
was going to stay with the Duke of Omnium. It was so 
thoroughly understood at Framley Court that the duke 
and all belonging to him w^as noxious and damnable. He 
was a Whig, he Avas a bachelor, he Avas a gambler, he Avas 
immoral in eAmry Avay, he Avas a man of no Church princi- 
ple, a corrupter of youth, a SAVorn foe of young wives, a 
SAA'allower up of small men’s patrimonies; a man whom 
mothers feared for their sons, and sisters for their broth- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


53 


ers ; and worse again, whom fathers had cause to fear for 
their daughters, and brothers for their sisters ; a man who, 
wdth his belongings, dwelt, and must dwell, poles asunder 
from Lady Lufton and her belongings ! 

And it must be remembered that all these evil things 
were fully believed by Mrs. Robarts. Could it really bo 
that her husband was going to dwell in the halls of Apol- 
lyon, to shelter himself beneath the wings of this very Lu- 
cifer ? A cloud of sorrow settled upon her face, and then 
she read the letter again very slowly, not omitting the tell- 
tal(f^ostscript. 

“ Oh, Justinia !” at last she said. 

“ What, have you got bad news too ?” 

“I hardly know how to tell you what has occurred. 
There ! I suppose you had better read it and she handed 
her husband’s epistle to Lady Meredith, keeping back, how- 
ever, the postscript. 

“ What on earth will her ladyship say now ?” said Lady 
Meredith, as she folded the paper and replaced it in the 
envelope. 

“What had I better do, Justinia? how had I better tell 
her?” And then the two ladies put their heads together, 
bethinking themselves how they might best deprecate the 
Avrath of Lady Lufton. It had been arranged that Mrs. 
Robarts should go back to the parsonage after lunch, and 
she had persisted in her intention after it had been settled 
that the Merediths Avere to stay over that evening. Lady 
Meredith now advised her friend to carry out this determ- 
ination Avithout saying any thing about her husband’s ter- 
rible iniquities, and then to send the letter up to Lady 
Lufton as soon as she reached the parsonage. “ Mamma 
Avill never knoAV that you received it here,” said Lady 
Meredith. 

But Mrs. Robarts would not consent to this. Such a 
course seemed to her to be cowardly. She knew that her 
husband was doing wrong ; she felt that he knew it him- 
self; but still it was necessary that she should defend him. 
However terrible might be the storm, it must break upon 
her own head. So she at once Avent up and tapped at 
Lady Lufton’s private door, and as she did so Lady Mere- 
dith followed her. 

“Come in,” said Lady Lufton, and the voice did not 
sound soft and pleasant. When they entered, they found 


54 


PRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


her sitting at her little writing-table, with her head resting 
on her arm, and that letter which she had received that 
morning was lying open on the table before her. Indeed, 
there were two letters now there, one from a London law- 
yer to herself, and the other from her son to that London 
lawyer. It needs only be explained that the subject of 
those letters Avas the immediate sale of that outlying por- 
tion of the Lufton property in Oxfordshire, as to which 
Mr. Sowerby once spoke. Lord Lufton had told the law- 
yer that the thing must be done at once, adding that his 
friend Ilobarts would have explained the whole affair to 
his mother. And then the lawyer had written to Lady 
Lufton, as indeed Avas necessary; but, unfortunately. Lady 
Lufton had not hitherto heard a Avord of the matter. 

In her eyes the sale of family property was horrible ; 
the fact that a young man with some fifteen or twenty 
thousand a year should require subsidiary money was hor- 
rible; that her OAvn son should have not written to her 
liimself Avas horrible ; and it was also horrible that her own 
pet, the clergyman whom she had brought there to be her 
son’s friend, should be mixed up in the matter — should be 
cognizant of it Avhile she Avas not cognizant — should be era- 
2)loyed in it as a go-between and agent in her son’s bad 
courses. It Avas all horrible, and Lady Lufton Avas sitting 
there Avith a black broAV and an uneasy heart. As regard- 
ed our poor parson, Ave may say that in this matter he Avas 
blameless, except that he had hitherto lacked the courage 
to execute his friend’s commission. 

“What is it, Fanny?” said Lady Lufton as soon as the 
door Avas opened ; “ I should have been doAvn in half an 
hour, if you Avanted me, Justinia.” 

“ Fanny has received a letter Avhich makes her wish to 
speak to you at once,” said Lady Meredith. 

“ What letter, Fanny ?” 

Poor Fanny’s heart Avas in her mouth ; she held it in her 
hand, but had not yet quite made up her mind Avhether 
she Avould shoAV it bodily to Lady Lufton. 

“ From Mr. Robarts,” she said. 

“Well, I suppose he is going to stay another week at 
Chaldicotes. For my part, I should be as well pleased;” 
and Lady Lufton’s voice was not friendly, for she Avas think- 
ing of that farm in Oxfordshire. The imprudence of the 
young is A^ery sore to the prudence of their elders. No 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


65 


woman could be less covetous, less grasping than Lady 
Lufton ; but the sale of a portion of the old family proper- 
ty was to her as the loss of her own heart’s blood. 

“ Here is the letter, Lady Lufton ; perhaps you had bet- 
ter read it and Fanny handed it to her, again keeping 
back the postscript. She had read and reread the letter 
down stairs, but could not make out whether her husband 
had intended her to show it. From the line of the argu- 
ment she thought that he must have done so. At any rate, 
he said for himself more than she could say for him, and 
so, probably, it was best that her ladyship should see it. 

Lady Lufton took it and read it, and her face grew 
blacker and blacker. Her mind was set against the writer 
before she began it, and every word in it tended to make 
her feel more estranged from him. “ Oh, he is going to 
the palace, is he — well ; he must choose his own friends. 
Harold Smith one of his party ! It’s a pity, my dear, he 
did not see Miss Proudie before he met you ; he might 
have lived to be the bishop’s chaplain. Gatherum Castle ! 
You don’t mean to tell me that he is going there? Then 
I tell you fairly, Fanny, that I have done with him.” 

“ Oh, Lady Lufton, don’t say that,” said Mrs. Robarts, 
with tears in her eyes. 

“Mamma, mamma, don’t speak in that way,” said Lady 
Meredith. 

“ But, my dear, what am I to say ? I must speak in 
that way. You would not wish me to speak falsehoods, 
would you ? A man must choose for himself, but he can’t 
live with two different sets of people ; at least, not if I be- 
long to one and the Duke of Omnium to the other. The 
bishop going indeed ! If there be any thing that I hate, it 
is hypocrisy.” 

“ There is no hypocrisy in that. Lady Lufton.” 

“But I say there is, Fanny. Very strange, indeed! 
'^Put off his defense!’ Why should a man need. any de- 
fense to his wife if he acts in a straightforward way ? His 
own language condemns him: ‘Wrong to stand out!’ 
Now, will either of you tell me that Mr. Robarts would 
really have thought it wrong to refuse that invitation?^ I 
say that that is hypocrisy. There is no other word for it.” 

By this time the poor wife, who had been in tears, was 
wiping them away and preparing for action. Lady Luf- 
ton’s extreme severity gave her courage. She knew that 


56 


FEAMLEY PAESOISTAGE. 


it behooved her to fight for her husband when he was thus 
attacked. Had Lady Lufton been moderate in her re- 
marks, Mrs. Robarts would not have had a word to say. 

“ My husband may have been ill-judged,” she said, ‘‘ but 
he is no hypocrite.” 

“Very well, my dear, I dare say you know better than 
I; but to me it looks extremely like hypocrisy — eh, Jus- 
tinia ?” 

“ Oh, mamma, do be moderate.” 

“Moderate ! That’s all very well. How is one to mod- 
erate one’s feelings when one has been betrayed ?” 

“ You do not mean that Mr. Robarts has betrayed you?” 
said the wife. 

“ Oh no, of course not.” And then she went on read- 
ing the letter: “‘Seem to have been standing in judgment 
upon the duke.’ Might he not use the same argument as 
to going into any house in the kingdom, however infa- 
mous? We must all stand in judgment one upon another 
in that sense. ‘ Crawley !’ Yes ; if he were a little more 
like Mr. Crawley, it would be a good thing for me, and for 
the parish, and for you too, my dear. God forgive me for 
bringing him here, that’s all.” 

“ Lady Lufton, I must say that you are very hard upon 
liim — very hard. I did not expect it from such a friend.” 

“ My dear, you ought to know me well enough to be 
sure that I shall speak my mind. ‘Written to Jones’ — 
yes; it is easy enough to write to poor Jones. He had 
better write to Jones, and bid him do the whole duty. 
Then he can go and be the duke’s domestic chaplain.” 

“I believe my husband does as much of his own duty 
as any clergyman in the whole diocese,” said Mrs. Robarts, 
now again in tears. 

“ And you are to take his work in the school — you and 
Mrs. Podgens. What with his curate, and his wife, and 
Mrs. Podgens, I don’t see why he should come back at all.” 

“Oh, mamma,” said Justinia, “pray, pray don’t be so 
harsh to her.” 

“ Let me finish it, my dear — oh, here I come. ‘ Tell her 
ladyship my whereabouts.’ He little thought you’d show 
me this letter.” 

“ Didn’t he ?” said Mrs. Robarts, putting out her hand 
to get it back, but in vain. “ I thought it was for the best 
— I did indeed.” 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


57 


“ I had better finish it now, if yon please. What is this? 
How does he dare send his ribald jokes to me in such a 
matter? No, I do not suppose I ever shall like Dr. Prou- 
die; I have never expected it. A matter of conscience 
with him! Well — well, well. Had I not read it myself, 
I could not have believed it of him ; I would* not positive- 
ly have believed it. ‘ Coming from my parish, he could 
not go to the Duke of Omnium !’ And it is what I would 
wish to have said. Peoj^le fit for this parish should not be 
fit for the Duke of Omnium’s house. And I had trusted 
that he would have this feeling more strongly than any 
one else in it. I have been deceived — that’s all.” 

“ He has done nothing to deceive you. Lady Lufton.” 

“ I hope he will not have deceived you, my dear. ‘ More 
money ;’ yes, it is probable that he will want more money. 
There is your letter, Fanny. I am very sorry for it. I 
can say nothing more.” And she folded up the letter and 
gave it back to Mrs. Robarts. 

“ I thought it right to show it you,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

“It did not much matter whether you did or no; of 
course I must have been told.” 

“He especially begs me to tell you.” 

“ Why, yes ; he could not very well have kept me in the 
dark in such a matter. He could not neglect his own 
work, and go and live with gamblers and adulterers at the 
Duke of Omnium’s without my knowing it.” 

And now Fanny Robarts’s cup was full — ^full to the over- 
flowing. When she heard these words she forgot all about 
Lady Lufton, all about Lady Meredith, and remembered 
only her husband — that he was her husband, and, in spite 
of his faults, a good and loving husband ; and that other 
fact also she remembered, that she was his wife. 

“ Lady Lufton,” she said, “ you forget yourself in speak- 
ing in that way of my husband.” 

“ What !” said her ladyship ; “ you are to show me such 
a letter as that, and I am not to tell you what I think ?” 

“Not if you think such hard things as that. Even you 
are not justified in speaking to me in that way, and I will 
not hear it.” 

“ Heighty-tighty !” said her ladyship. 

“ Whether or no he is right in going to the Duke of 
Omnium’s, I will not* pretend to judge. He is the judge 
of his own actions, and neither you nor I.” 

C 2 


68 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“And when he leaves you with the butcher’s bill unpaid, 
and no money to buy shoes for the children, who will be 
the judge then?” 

“Not you, Lady Lufton. If such bad days should ever 
come — and neither you nor I have a right to expect them 
— I wdll not come to you in my troubles — not after this.” 

. “Very well, my dear. You may go to the Duke of 
Omnium, if that suits you better.” 

“ Fanny, come away,” said Lady Meredith. “ Why 
should you try to anger my mother ?” 

“ I don’t want to anger her ; but I won’t hear him abused 
in that way without speaking up for him. If I don’t de- 
fend him, wLo will? Lady Lufton has said terrible things 
about him, and they are not true.” 

“Oh, Fanny!” said Justinia. 

“Very well, very well,” said Lady Lufton. “ This is the 
sort of return that one gets.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by return. Lady Lufton ; 
but would you wish me to stand by quietly and hear such 
things said of my husband? He does not live with such 
people as you have named. He does not neglect his duties. 
If every clergyman were as much in his parish, it would 
be well for some of them. And in going to such a house 
as the Duke of Omnium’s, it does make a difference that 
he goes there in company with the bishop. I can’t explain 
why, but I know that it does.” 

“Especially when the bishop is coupled up v/ith the 
devil, as Mr. Robarts has done,” said Lady Lufton ; “ he 
can join the duke with them, and then they’ll stand for the 
three Graces, won’t they, Justinia ?” And Lady Lufton 
laughed a bitter little laugh at her own wit. 

“ I suppose I may go now. Lady Lufton.” 

“ Oh yes, certainly, my dear.” 

“ I am sorry if I have made you angry with me, but I 
will not allow any one to speak against Mr. Robarts with- 
out answering them. You have been very unjust to him ; 
and, even though I do anger you, I must say so.” 

“Come, Fanny, this is too bad,” said Lady Lufton. 
“ You have been scolding me for the last half hour because 
I would not congratulate you on this new friend that your 
husband has made, and now you are going to begin it all 
over again. That is more than I can stand. If you have 
nothing else particular to say, you might as well leave me.” 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


59 


And Lady Lufton’s face, as she spoke, was unbending, se- 
vere, and harsh. 

Mrs. Robarts had never before been so spoken to by her 
old friend; indeed, she had never been so spoken to by any 
one, and she hardly knew how to bear herself. 

“Very well. Lady Lufton,” she said; “then I will go. 
Good-by.” 

“ Good-by,” said Lady Lufton ; and, turning herself to 
her table, she began to arrange her papers. Fanny had 
never before left Framley Court to go back to her own 
parsonage without a warm embrace. Now she was to do 
so without even having her hand taken. Had it come to 
this, that there was absolutely to be a quarrel between 
them — a quarrel forever ? 

“Fanny is going, you know, mamma,” said Lady Mer- 
edith. “ She will be home before you are down again.” 

“ I can not help it, my dear. Fanny must do as she 
pleases. I am not to be the judge of her actions. She has 
just told me so.” 

Mrs. Robarts had said nothing of the kind, but she was 
far too proud to point this out. So, with a gentle step, 
she retreated through the. door, and then Lady Meredith, 
having tried what a conciliatory whisper with her mother 
would do, followed her. Alas! the conciliatory whisper 
was altogether ineffectual. 

The two ladies said nothing as they descended the stairs, 
but when they had regained the drawing-room they looked 
with, blank horror into each other’s faces. What were 
they to do now ? Of such a tragedy as this they had had 
no remotest preconception. Was it absolutely the case that 
Fanny Robarts was to walk out of Lady Lufton’s house as 
a declared enemy — she who, before her marriage as well 
as since, had been almost treated as an adopted daughter 
of the family ? 

“ Oh, Fanny, why did you answer my mother in that 
way ?” said Lady Meredith. “ You saw that she was vex- 
ed. She had other things to vex her besides this about 
Mr. Robarts.” 

“ And would not you answer any one who attacked Sir 
George ?” 

“No, not my own mother. I would let her say what 
she pleased, and leave Sir George to fight his own bat- 
tles.” 


60 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Ah ! but it is different with you. You are her daugh- 
ter, and Sir George — she would not dare to speak in that 
way as to Sir George’s doings.” 

“ Indeed she would, if it pleased her. I am sorry I let 
you go up to her.” 

“ It is as well that it should be over, J ustinia. As those 
are her thoughts about Mr. Robarts, it is quite as well that 
we should know them. Even for all that I owe to her, 
and all the love I bear to you, I will not come to this house 
if I am to hear my husband abused — not into any house.” 

“ My dearest Fanny, we all know what happens when 
two angry people get together.” 

“I was not angry when I went up to her — not in the 
least.” 

“ It is no good looking back. What are we to do now, 
Fanny ?” 

“ I suppose I had better go home,” said Mrs. Robarts. 
“I will go and put my things up, and then I will send 
James for them.” 

“ Wait till after lunch, and then you will be able to kiss 
my mother before you leave us.” 

“No, Justinia, I can not wait. I must answer Mr. Rob- 
arts by this post, and I must think what I have to say to 
him. I could not write that letter here, and the post goes 
at four.” And Mrs. Robarts got up from her chair pre- 
paratory to her final departure. 

“ I shall come to you before dinner,” said Lady Mere- 
dith ; “ and if I can bring you good tidings, I shall expect 
you to come back here with me. It is out of the question 
that I should go away from Framley leaving you and my 
mother at enmity with each other.” 

To this Mrs. Robarts made no answer ; and in a very 
few minutes afterward she was in her own nursery, kissing 
her children, and teaching the elder one to say something 
about papa. But, even as she taught him, the tears stood 
in her eyes, and the little fellow knew that every thing 
was not right. 

And there she sat till about two, doing little odds and 
ends of things for the children, and allowing that occupa- 
tion to stand as an excuse to her for not commencing her 
letter. But then there remained only two hours to her, 
and it might be that the letter would be difficult in the 
writing — would require thought and changes, and must 


FRAMLEY f’ARSONAGE. 


61 


needs be copied, perhaps more than once. As to the mon- 
ey, that she had in the house — as much, at least, as Mark 
now wanted, though the sending of it would leave her 
nearly penniless. She could, however, in case of personal 
need, resort to Davis, as desired by him. 

So she got out her desk in the drawing-room, and sat 
down and wrote her letter. It was difficult, though she 
found that it hardly took so long as she expected. It was 
difficult, for she felt bound to tell him the truth ; and yet she 
was anxious not to spoil all his pleasure among his friends. 
She told him, however, that Lady Lufton was very angry — 
“ unreasonably angry, I must say,” she put in, in order to 
show that she had not sided against him. “ And, indeed’, 
we have quite quarreled, and this has made me unhappy, as 
it will you, dearest ; I know that. But we both know how 
good she is at heart, and Justinia thinks that she had other 
things to trouble her ; and I hope it will all be made up 
before you come home ; only, dearest Mark, pray do not 
be longer than you said in your last letter.” And then 
there were three or four paragraphs about the babies, and 
two about the schools, which I may as well omit. 

She had just finished her letter, and was carefully folding 
it for its envelope, with the two whole five-pound notes 
imprudently placed within it, when she heard a footstep 
on the gravel path which led up from a small wicket to the 
front door. The path ran near the drawing-room window, 
and she was just in time to catch a glimpse of the last fold 
of a passing cloak. “It is Justinia,” she said to herself; 
and her heart became disturbed at the idea of again dis- 
cussing the morning’s adventure. “What am I to do,” 
she had said to herself before, “if she wants me to beg 
her pardon ? I will not own before her that he is in the 
wrong.” 

And then the door opened — for the visitor made her en- 
trance without the aid of any servant — and Lady Lufton 
herself stood before her. “ Fanny,” she said at once, “ I 
have come to beg your pardon.” 

“ Oh, Lady Lufton !” 

“ I was very much harassed when you came to me just 
now — by more things than one, my deal*. But, neverthe- 
less, I should not have spoken to you of your husband as I 
did, and so I have come to beg your pardon.*’ 

Mrs. Robarts was past answering by the time that this 


62 


FllAMLEY PaLESONAGE. 


was said — past answering at least in words; so she jumped 
up, and, with her eyes full of tears, threw herself into her 
old friend’s arms. “ Oh, Lady Lufton !” she sobbed forth 
again. 

“ You will forgive me, won’t you ?” said her ladyship, 
as she returned her young friend’s caress. “Well, that’s 
right. I have not been at all happy since you left my den 
this morning, and I don’t suppose you have. But, Fanny, 
dearest, we love each other too well and know each other 
too thoroughly to have a long quarrel, don’t we ?” 

“ Oh yes, Lady Lufton.” 

“ Of course we do. Friends are not to be j^icked up on 
the road-side every day, nor are they to be thrown away 
lightly. And now sit down, my love, and let us have a 
little talk. There, I must take my bonnet off. You have 
pulled the strings so that you have almost choked me.” 
And Lady Lufton deposited her bonnet on the table, and 
seated herself comfortably in the corner of the sofa. 

“ My dear,” she said, “ there is no duty which any 
woman owes to any other human being at all equal to that 
which she owes to her husband, and therefore you w'ere 
quite right to stand up for Mr. Robarts this morning.” 

Upon this Mrs. Robarts said nothing, but she got her 
hand within that of her ladyship and gave it a slight 
squeeze. 

. “ And I loved you for what you were doing all the time. 
I did, my dear, though you were a little fierce, you know. 
Even Justinia admits that, and she has been at me ever 
since you went away. And, indeed, I did not know that it 
was in you to look in that way out of those pretty eyes of 
yours.” 

“ Oh, Lady Lufton !”. 

“But I looked fierce enough too myself, I dare say, so 
we’ll say nothing more about that — will we? But now 
about this good man of yours ?” 

“ Dear Lady Lufton, you must forgive him.” 

“ Well, as you ask me, I will. We’ll have nothing more 
said about the duke, either now or when he comes back — 
not a word. Let me see — he’s to be back- — when is^t?” 

“ Wednesday week, I think.” 

“Ah ! Wednesday. Well, tell him to come and dine up 
at the house on Wednesday. He’ll be in time, I suppose, 
and there sha’n’t be a word said about this horrid duke.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


63 


“ I am so much obliged to you, Lady Lufton.” 

“ But look here, my dear ; believe me, he’s better off 
without such friends.” 

“ Oh, I know he is — much better off.” 

“Well, I’m glad you admit that, for I thought you 
seemed to be in favor of the duke.” 

“ Oh no. Lady Lufton.” 

“ That’s right, then. And now, if you’ll take my ad- 
vice, you’ll use your influence as a good, dear, sweet wife 
as you are, to prevent his going there any more. I’m an 
old wmman, and he is a young man, and it’s very natural 
that he should think me behind the times. I’m not angry 
at that. But he’ll find that it’s better for him — better for 
him in every way, to stick to his old friends. It will be 
better for his peace of mind, better for his character as a 
clergyman, better for his pocket, better for his children and 
for you, and better for his eternal welfare. The duke is 
not such a companion as he should seek; nor, if he is 
sought, should he allow himself to be led away.” 

And then Lady Lufton ceased, and Fanny Robarts, 
kneeling at her feet, sobbed, with her face hidden on her 
friend’s knees. She had not a word now to say as to her 
husband’s capability of judging for himself. 

“And now I must be going again; but Justinia has 
made me promise — promise, mind you, most solemnly, 
that I would have you back to dinner to-night — ^by force if 
necessary. It was the only way I could make my peace 
with her ; so you must not leave me in the lurch.” Of 
course, Fanny said that she would go and dine at Framley 
Court. 

“ And you must not send that letter, by any means,” 
said her ladyship, as she was leaving the r.oom, poking 
with her umbrella at the epistle which lay directed on Mrs. 
Robarts’s desk. “ I can understand very well what it con- 
tains. You must alter it altogether, my dear.” And then 
Lady Lufton went. 

Mrs. Robarts instantly rushed to her desk and tore open 
her letter. She looked at her watch, and it was past four. 
She had hardly begun another when the postman came. 
“ Oh, Mary,” she said, “ do make him wait. If he’ll wait 
a quarter of an hour I’ll give him a shilling.’’ 

“ There’s no need of that, ma’am. Let him have a glass 
of beer.” 


C4 


rilAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“ Very well, Mary ; but don’t give him too much, for 
fear he should drop the letters about. I’ll be ready in ten 
minutes.” 

And in' five minutes she had scrawled a very different 
sort of a letter. But he might want the money immedi- 
ately, so she would not delay it for a day. 


CHAPTER VI. 

ME. HAEOLD SMITIl’s LECTUEE. 

On the whole, the party at Chaldicotes was very pleas- 
ant, and the time passed away quickly enough. Mr. Rob- 
arts’s chief friend there, independently of Mr. Sowerby, 
was Miss Dunstable, who seemed to take a great fancy to 
him, whereas she was not very accessible to the blandish- 
ments of Mr. Supplehouse, nor more specially courteous 
even to her host than good manners required of her. But 
then Mr. Supplehouse and Mr. Sowerby were both bache- 
lors, while Mark Robarts was a married man. 

With Mr. Sowerby Robarts had more than one commu- 
nication respecting Lord Lufton and his affairs, which he 
would willingly have avoided had it been possible. Sow- 
erby was one of those men who are always mixing up busi- 
ness with pleasure, and who have usually some scheme in 
their mind which requires forwarding. Men of this class 
have, as a rule, no daily work, no regular routine of labor ; 
but it may be doubted whether they do not toil much more 
incessantly than those who have. 

“ Lufton is so dilatory,” Mr. Sowerby said. “ Why did 
he not arrange this at once, when he promised it ? And 
then he is so afraid of that old woman at Framley Court. 
Well, my dear fellow, say what you will, she is an old wom- 
an, and she’ll never be younger. But do write to Lufton, 
and tell him that this delay is inconvenient to me ; he’ll 
do any thing for you, I know.” 

Mark said that he would write, and, indeed, did do so ; 
but he did not at first like the tone of the conversation into 
which he was dragged. It was very painful to him to hear 
Lady Lufton called an old woman, and hardly less so to 
discuss the ■jS’opriety of Lord Lufton’s parting with his 
property. This was irksome to him till habit made it 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


G5 

easy. But by degrees his feelings became less acute, and 
he accustomed himself to his friend Sowerby’s mode of 
talking. 

And then on the Saturday afternoon they all went over 
to Barchester. Harold Smith during the last forty-eight 
hours had become crammed to overflowing with Sarawak, 
Labuan, Hew Guinea, and the Salomon Islands. As is the 
case with all m*en laboring under temporary specialities, he 
for the time had faith in nothing else, and was not content 
that any one near him should have any other faith. They 
called him Viscount Papua and Baron Borneo; and his 
wife, who headed the joke against him, insisted on having 
her title. Miss Dunstable swore that she would wed none 
but a South Sea Islander ; and to Mark was offered the 
income and duties of Bishop of Spices. Hor did the Prou- 
die family set themselves against these little sarcastic quips 
with any overwhelming severity. It is .sweet to unbend 
one’s self at the proper opportunity, and this was the prop- 
er opportunity for Mrs. Proudie’s unbending! Ho mortal 
can be seriously wise at all hours ; afid in these happy 
hours did that usually wise mortal, the bishop, lay aside 
for a while his serious wisdom. 

“ We think of dining at five to-morrow, my Lady Papua,” 
said the facetious bishop ; “ will that suit his lordship and 
the affairs. of state? he! he! he!” And the good prelate 
laughed at the fun. 

How pleasantly young men and women of fifty or therer 
abouts can joke, and flirt, and poke their fun about, laugh- 
ing and holding their sides, dealing in little innuendoes, 
and rejoicing in nicknames, when they have no Mentors of 
twenty-five or thirty near them to keep them in ordei; 
The Vicar of Framley might perhaps have been regarded 
as such a Mentor, were it not for that capability of adapt- 
ing himself to the company immediately around him on 
which he so much piqued himself. He therefore also 
talked to my Lady Papua, and was jocose about the bar- 
on — not altogether to the satisfaction of Harold Smith him- 
self. 

For Mr. Harold Smith was in earnest, and did not quite 
relish these jocundities. He had an idea that he could in 
about three months talk the British world into civilizing 
Hew Guinea, and that the world of Barsetshire would be 
made to go with him by one night’s efforts. He did not 


66 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


understand why others should be less serious, and was in- 
clined to resent somewhat stiffly the amenities of our friend 
•Mitrk. 

“We must not keep the baron waiting,” said Mark, as 
they were preparing to start for Barchester. 

“ I don’t know what you mean by the baron, sir,” said 
Harold Smith. “ But perhaps the joke will be against you 
when you are getting up into your pulpit to-morrow and 
sending the hat round among the clodhoppers of Chaldi- 
cotes.” 

“ Those who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones 
—eh, baron?” said Miss Dunstable. “Mr. Robarts’s ser- 
mon will be too near akin to your lecture to allow of his 
laughing.” 

“ If we can do nothing toward instructing the outer 
world till it’s done by the parsons,” said Harold Smith, 
“ the outer world. will have to wait a long time, I fear.” 

“ Nobody can do any thing of that kind short of a mem- 
ber of Parliament and a would-be minister,” whispered 
Mrs. Harold. 

And so they were all very pleasant together, in spite of 
a little fencing with edge tools ; and at three o’clock the 
cortege of carriages started for Barchester, that of the bish- 
op, of course, leading the way. His lordship, however, 
Avas not in it. 

“ Mrs. Proudie, I’m sure you’ll let me go with you,” 
said Miss Dunstable, at the last moment, as she came doAvn 
the big stone steps. “ I Avant to. hear the rest of that story 
about Mr. Slope.” 

Now this upset every thing. The bishop Avas to have 
gone Avith his Avife, Mrs. Smith, and Mark Robarts ; and 
Mr. SoAverby had so arranged matters that he could have 
accompanied Miss Dunstable in his phaeton. But no one 
ever dreamed of denying Miss Dunstable any thing. Of 
course, Mark gave Avay ; but it ended in the bishop declar- 
ing that he had no special predilection for his OAvn carriage, 
Avhich he did in compliance Avith a glance from his wife’s 
eye. Then other changes of course followed, and at last 
Mr. Sowerby and Harold Smith Avere the joint occupants 
of the phaeton. 

The poor lecturer, as he seated himself, made some re- 
mark such as those he had been making 'for the last two 
days — for out of a full heart the mouth speaketh. But he 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


67 


spoke to an impatient listener. “ D — the South Sea Isl- 
anders,” said Mr. Sowerby. “You’ll have it all your own 
way in a few minutes, ‘like a bull in a china-shop ; but, for 
Heaven’s sake, let us have a little peace till that time 
comes.” It appeared that Mr. Sowerby’s little plan of 
having Miss Dunstable for his companion was not quite in- 
significant ; and, indeed, it may be said that but few of his 
little plans were so. At the present moment he flung him- 
self back in the carriage and prepared for sleep. He could 
further no plan of his by a tete-a-tete conversation with his 
brother-in-law. 

And then Mrs. Proudie began her story about Mr. Slope, 
or rather recommenced it. She was very fond of talking 
about this gentleman, who had once been her pet chaplain, 
but Avas noAV her bitterest foe ; and in telling the story, 
she had sometimes to Avhisper to Miss Dunstable, for there 
were one or two fie-fie little anecdotes about a married 
lady not altogether fit for young Mr. Robarts’s ears. But 
Mrs. Harold Smith insisted on having them out loud, and 
Miss Dunstable Avould gratify that lady in spite of Mrs. 
Proudie’s Avinks. 

“What, kissing her hand, and ho a clergyman!” said 
Miss Dunstable. “I did not think they ever did such 
things, Mr. Robarts.” 

“ Still waters run deepest,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. 

“ Hush-h-h !” looked, rather than spoke,- Mrs. Proudie. 
“ The grief of spirit Avhich that bad man caused me nearly 
broke my heart, and all the Avhile, you knoAV, he was court- 
ing — ” and then Mrs. Proudie Avhispered a name. 

“ What, the dean’s wife !” shouted Miss Dunstable, in a 
voice which made the coachman of the next carriage give 
a chuck to his horses as he overheard her. 

“ The archdeacon’s sister-in-law !”' screamed Mrs. Har- 
old Smith. 

“ What might he not have attempted next ?” said Miss 
Dunstable. 

“She Avasn’t the dean’s Avife then, you knoAA',” said Mrs. 
Proudie, explaining. 

“Well, you’ve a gay set in the chapter, I must say,” 
said Miss Dunstable. “ You ought to make one of them 
in Barchester, Mr. Robarts.” 

“ Only perhaps Mrs. Robarts might not like it,” said 
Mrs. Harold Smith. 


68 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ And then the schemes which he trikl on with the bish- 
op !” said Mrs. Prondie. 

“ It’s all fair in love and war, you know,” said Miss 
Dunstable. 

“ But he little knew whom he had to deal with when he 
began that,” said Mrs. Proudie. 

“The bishop was too many for him,” suggested Mrs. 
Harold Smith, very maliciously. 

“ If the bishop was not, somebody else was ; and he was 
obliged to leave Barchester in utter disgrace. lie has 
since married the wife of some tallow-chandler.” 

“ The wife !” said Miss Dunstable. “ What a man !” 

“ Widow, I mean ; but it’s all one to him.” 

“The gentleman was clearly born when Venus was in 
the ascendant,” said Mrs. Smith. “ You clergymen usual- 
ly are, I believe, Mr. Robarts.” So that Mrs. Proudie’s 
carriage was by no means the dullest as they drove into 
Barchester that day ; and by degrees our friend Mark be- 
came accustomed to his companions, and before they reach- 
ed the palace he acknowledged to himself that Miss Dun- 
stable was very good fun. 

We can not linger over the bishop’s dinner, though it 
was very good of its kind ; and as Mr. Sowerby contrived 
to sit next to Miss Dunstable, thereby overturning a little 
scheme made by Mr. Supplehouse, he again shone forth in 
unclouded good-humor. But Mr. Harold Smith became 
impatient immediately on the withdrawal of the cloth. 
The lecture was to begin at seven, and according to his 
watch that hour had already come. He declared that Sow- 
erby and Supplehouse were endeavoring to delay matters 
in order that the Barchesterians might become vexed and 
impatient, and so the bishop was not allowed to exercise 
his hospitality in true episcopal fashion. 

“You forget, Sowerby,” said Supplehouse, “that the 
world here for the last fortnight has been looking forward 
to nothing else.” 

“ The world shall be gratified at once,” said Mrs. Harold, 
obeying a little nod from Mrs. Proudie. “ Come, my dear,” 
and she took hold of Miss Dunstable’s arm, “ don’t let us 
keep Barchester waiting. We shall be ready in a quarter of 
an hour, shall we not, Mrs. Proudie ?” and so they sailed off. 

“ And we shall have time for one glass of claret,” said 
the bishop. ’ 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


69 


“ There ! that’s seven by the cathedral,” said Harold 
Smith, jumping up from his chair as he heard the clock. 
“ If the people have come, it would not be right in me to 
keep them waiting, and I shall go.” 

“Just one glass of claret, Mr. Smith, and we’ll be off,” 
said the bishop. 

“ Those women Avill keep me an hour,” said Harold, fill- 
ing his glass, and drinking it standing. “They do it on 
purpose.” He was thinking of his wife, but it seemed to 
the bishop as though his guest were actually speaking of 
Mrs. Proudie! 

It was rather late when they all found themselves in the 
big room of the Mechanics’ Institute ; but I do not know 
whether this, on the Avhole, did them any harm. Most of 
Mr. Smith’s hearers, excepting the party from the palace, 
were Barch ester tradesmen, with their wives and families, 
and they waited, not impatiently, for the big people. And 
then the lecture was gratis — a fact which is always borne 
in mind by an Englishman when he comes to reckon up 
and calculate the way in which he is treated. When he 
pays his money, then he takes his choice ; he may be im- 
patient or not, as he likes. His sense of justice teaches 
him so much, and in accordance with that sense he usually 
acts. 

So the people on the benches rose graciously when the 
palace party entered the room. Seats for them had been 
kept in the front. There were three arm-chairs, which 
were filled, after some little hesitation, by the bishop, Mrs. 
Proudie, and Miss Dunstable — Mrs. Smith positively de- 
clining to take one of them, though, as she admitted, her 
rank as Lady Papua of the islands did give her some claim. 
And this remark, as it was made quite out loud, reached 
Mr. Smith’s ears as he stood behind a little table on a small 
raised dais, holding his white kid gloves, and it annoyed 
him and rather put him out. He did not like that joke 
about Lady Papua. 

And then the others of the party sat upon a front bench 
covered with red cloth. “ We shall find this very hard 
and very narrow about the second hour,” said Mr. Sower- 
by, and Mr. Smith on his dais again overheard the words, 
and dashed his gloves down to the table. He felt that all 
the room would hear it. 

And there were one or two gentlemen on the second 


70 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


seat who shook hands with some of our party. There was 
Mr. Thorne of Ullathorne, a good-natured old bachelor, 
whose residence was near enough to Barchester to allow 
of his coming in without much personal inconvenience ; 
and next to him was Mr. Harding, an old clergyman of 
the chapter, with whom Mrs. Proudie shook hands very 
graciously, making way for him to seat himself close be- 
hind her, if he would so please. But Mr. Harding did not 
so please. Having paid his respects to the bishop, he re- 
turned quietly to the side of his old friend Mr. Thorne, 
thereby angering Mrs. Proudie, as might easily be seen by 
her face. And Mr. Chadwick also was there, the episcopal 
man of business for the diocese ; but he also adhered to 
the two gentlemen above named. 

And now that the bishop and the ladies had taken their 
places, Mr. Harold Smith relifted his gloves and again laid 
them down, hummed three times distinctly, and then be- 

“ It was,” he said, “ the most peculiar characteristic of 
the present era in the British Islands that those who were 
high placed before the world in rank, wealth, and educa- 
tion were willing to come forward and give their time 
and knowledge without fee or reward, for the advantage 
and amelioration of those who did not stand so high in the 
social scale.” And then he paused for a moment, during 
which Mrs. Smith remarked to Miss Dunstable that that 
was pretty well for a beginning ; and Miss Dunstable re- 
plied “that as for herself she felt very grateful to rank, 
Avealth, and education.” Mr. SoAverby Avinked to Mr. Sup- 
plehouse, Avho opened his eyes very Avide and shrugged his 
shoulders. But the Barchesterians took it all in good part, 
and gave the lecturer the applause of their hands and feet. 

And then, Avell pleased, he recommenced — “I do not 
make these remarks Avith reference to myself — ” 

“ I hope he’s not going to be modest,” said Miss Dun- 
stable. 

“ It Avill be quite neAV if he is,” replied Mrs. Smith. 

“ — SO' much as to many noble and talented lords and 
members of the LoAver House, Avho have lately, from time 
to time, devoted themselves to this good Avork.” And then 
he Avent through a long list of peers and members of Par- 
liament, beginning, of course, Avith Lord Boanerges, and 
ending with Mr. Green Walker, a young gentleman Avho 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


71 


had lately been returned by his uncle’s interest for the 
borough of Crew Junction, and had immediately made his 
entrance into public life by giving a lecture on the gram- 
marians of the Latin language as exemplified at Eton 
school. 

“ On the present occasion,” Mr. Smith continued, “ our 
object is to learn something as to those grand and magnif- 
icent islands which lie far away, beyond the Indies, in the 
Southern Ocean ; the lands of which produce rich spices 
and glorious fruits, and whose seas are imbedded with 
pearls and corals, Papua and the Philippines, Borneo and 
tlie Moluccas. My friends, you are familiar with your 
maps, and you know the track which the equator makes 
for itself through those distant oceans.” And then many 
heads were turned down, and there was a rustle of leaves ; 
for not a few of those “ who stood not so high in the social 
scale” had brought their maps with them, and refreshed 
their memories as to the whereabouts of these wondrous 
islands. 

And then Mr. Smith also, with a map in his hand, and 
i:)ointing occasionally to anotlier large map which hung 
against the wall, went into the geography of the matter. 
“ We might have found that out from our atlases, I think, 
without coming all the way to Barchpster,” said that un- 
sympathizing helpmate Mrs. Harold, very cruelly — most il- 
logically too, for there be so many things which we could 
find out ourselves by search, but which we never do find 
out unless they be specially told us ; and why should not 
the latitude and longitude of Labuan be one — or rather 
two of these things ? 

And then, when he had duly marked the path of the line 
through Borneo, Celebes, and Gilolo, through the Macassar 
Strait and the Molucca Passage, Mr. Harold Smith rose to 
a higher flight. “ But what,” said he, “ avails, all that God 
can give to man, unless man will open his hand to receive 
the gift ? And what is this opening of the hand but the 
process of civilization — yes, my friends, the process of civ- 
ilization ? These South Sea Islanders have all that a kind 
Providence can bestow on them ; but that all is as nothing 
without education. That education and that civilization it 
is for you to bestow upon them — yes, my friends, for you ; 
for you, citizens of Barchester as you are.” And then he 
paused again, in order that the feet and hands might go to 


72 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


work. The feet and hands did go to work, during which 
Mr. Smith took a slight drink of water. 

He was now quite in his element, and had got into the 
proper way of punching the table with his fists. A few 
words dropping from Mr. Sowerby did now and again find 
their way to his ears, but the sound of his own voice had 
brought with it the accustomed charm, and he ran on from 
platitude to truism, and from truism back to platitude, with 
an eloquence that was charming to himself. 

“ Civilization,” he exclaimed, lifting up his eyes and 
hands to the ceiling. “ Oh, civilization — ” 

“ There will not be a chance for us now for the next 
hour and a half,” said Mr. Supplehouse, groaning. 

Harold Smith cast one eye down at him, but it immedi- 
ately flew back to the ceiling. 

“ Oh, civilization ! thou that ennoblest mankind and 
makest him equal to the gods, what is like unto thee ?” 
Here Mrs. Proudie showed evident signs of disapproba- 
tion, which no doubt would have been shared by the 
bishop had not that worthy prelate been asleep. But Mr. 
Smith continued unobservant, or, at any rate, regardless. 

“What is like unto thee? Thou art the irrigating 
stream which makest fertile the bax’ren plain. Till thou 
comest, all is dark and dreary ; but at thy advent the noon- 
tide sun shines out, the earth gives forth her increase, the 
deep bowels of the rocks render up their tribute. Forms 
which Avere dull and hideous become endowed with grace 
and beauty, and vegetable existence rises to the scale of 
celestial life. Then, too, genius appears clad in a panoply 
of translucent armor, grasping in his hand the whole ter- 
restrial surface, and making every rood of earth subservi- 
ent to his purposes — Genius, the child of civilization, the 
mother of the Arts !” 

The last little bit, taken from the Pedigree of Progress, 
had a great success, and all Barchester went to Avork with 
its hands and feet — all Barchester except that ill-natured 
aristocratic front roAV, together with the three arm-chairs 
at the corner of it. The aristocratic front row felt itself to 
be too intimate Avith civilization to care much about it ; 
and the three arm-chairs, or rather that special one which 
contained Mrs. Proudie, considered that there Avas a cer- 
tain heathenness, a pagan sentimentality almost amount- 
ing to infidelity, contained in the lecturer’s remarks, Avith 


PKAJILEY PARSONAGE. 


73 

which she, a pillar of the Church, could not put up, seated 
as she was now in public conclave. 

“ It is to civilization that we must look,” continued Mr. 
Harold Smith, descending from poetry to prose as a lectur- 
er well knows how, and thereby showing the value of both 
— “ for any material progress in these islands ; and — ” 

“ And to Christianity,” shouted Mrs. Proudie, to the 
great amazement of the assembled people and to the thor- 
ough wakening of the bishop, who, jumping up in his chair 
at the sound of the well-known voice, exclaimed, “ Certain- 
ly, certainly.” 

“Hear! hear! hear!” said those on the benches who 
particularly belonged to Mrs* Proudie’s school of divinity 
in the city, and among the voices was distinctly heard that 
of a new verger in whose behalf she had greatly interested 
herself. 

“ Oh yes, Christianity of course,” said Harold Smith, 
upon whom the interruption did not seem to operate fa- 
vorably. 

“ Christianity and Sabbath-day observance,” exclaimed 
Mrs. Proudie, who, now that she had obtained the ear of 
the public, seemed well inclined to keep it. “ Let us never 
forget that these islanders can never prosper unless they 
keep the Sabbath holy.” 

Poor Mr. Smith, having been so rudely dragged from his 
high horse, was never able to mount it again, and com- 
pleted the lecture in a manner not at all comfortable to 
himself. He had there, on the table before him, a huge 
bundle of statistics with which he had meant to convince 
the reason of his hearers after he had taken full possession 
of their feelings. But they fell very dull and flat. And at 
the moment when he was interrupted, he was about to ex- 
plain that that material progress to which he had alluded 
could not be attained without money, and that it be- 
hooved them, the people of Barchester before him, to come 
forward with their purses like men and brothers. He did 
also attempt this ; but, from the moment of that fatal on- 
slaught from the arm-chair, it was clear to him and to ev- 
ery one else that Mrs. Proudie was now the hero of the 
hour. His time had gone by, and the people of Barchester 
did not care a straw for his appeal. 

From these causes the lecture was over full twenty 
minutes earlier than anv one had expected, to the great 

D 


74 


FRAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


delight of Messrs. Sowerby and Supplehonse, who, on that 
evening, moved and carried a vote of thanks to Mrs. Proii- 
die. For they had gay doings yet before they went to 
their beds. 

“ Robarts, here one moment,” Mr. Sowerby said, as they 
were standing at the door of the Mechanics’ Institute. 
“ Don’t you go off with Mr. and Mrs. Bishop; We are go- 
ing to have a little supper at the Dragon of Wantley, and, 
after what we have gone through, upon my word we want 
it. You can tell one of the palace servants to let you in.” 

Mark considered the proposal wistfully. He would fain 
have joined the supper-party had he dared ; but he, like 
many others of his cloth, had the fear of Mrs. Proudie be- 
fore his eyes. 

And a very merry supper they had ; but poor Mr. Harold 
Smith was not the merriest of the party. 


CHAPTER VH. 

SUNDAY MORNING. 

It was perhajDs quite as well, on the whole, for Mark 
Robarts, that he did not go to that supper-party. It was 
eleven o’clock before they sat down, and nearly two before 
the gentlemen were in bed. It must be remembered that 
he had to preach, on the coming Sunday morning, a chari- 
ty sermon on behalf of a mission to Mr. Harold Smith’s 
islanders ; and, to tell the truth, it was a task for which 
he had now very little inclination. 

When first invited to do this, he had regarded the task 
seriously enough, as he always did regard such work, and 
he completed his sermon for the occasion before he left 
Framley ; but, since that, an air of ridicule had been thrown 
over the whole affair, in which he had joined without much 
thinking of his own sermon, and this made him now heart- 
ily wish that he could choose a discourse upon any other 
subject. 

He knew well that the very points on which he had 
most insisted were those which had drawn most mirth 
from Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Smith, and had oftenest pro- 
voked his own laughter; and how was he now to preach 
on those matters in a fitting mood, knowing, as he would 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


75 


know, that those two ladies would be looking at him, 
would endeavor to catch his eye, and would turn him into 
ridicule as they had already turned the lecturer ? 

In this he did injustice to one of the ladies, unconscious- 
ly. Miss Dunstable, with all her aptitude for mirth, and 
we may almost fairly say for frolic, was in no way inclined 
to ridicule religion or any thing which she thought to ap- 
pertain to it. It, may be presumed that among such things 
she did not include Mrs. Proudie, as she was willing enough 
to laugh at that lady ; but Mark, had he known her better, 
might have been sure that she would have sat out his ser- 
mon Avith perfect propriety. 

As it Avas, hoAvever, he did feel considerable uneasiness; 
and in the morning he got up early, Avith the vieAV of see- 
ing Avhat might be done in the way of emendation. He 
cut out those parts Avhich referred most specially to the 
islands — ^he rejected altogether those names over Avhich 
they had all laughed together so heartily — and he inserted 
a string of general remarks, very useful, no doubt, Avhich 
he flattered himself Avould rob his sermon of all similari- 
ty to Harold Smith’s lecture. He had perhaps hoped, 
Avhen writing it, to create some little sensation ; but now 
he Avould be quite satisfied if it passed Avithout remark. 

But his troubles for that Sunday Avere destined to be 
many. It had been arranged that the party at the hotel 
should brealvfast at eight, and start at half past eight punc- 
tually, so as to enable them to reach Chaldicbtes in ample 
time to arrange their dresses before they Avent to church. 
The church stood in the grounds, close to thaUlong, formal 
avenue of lime-trees, but Avithin the front gates. Their 
Avalk, therefore, after reaching Mr. Sowerby’s house, Avould 
not be long. 

Mrs. Proudie, who Avas herself an early body, would not 
hear of her guest — and he a clergyman — going out to the 
inn for his breakfast on a Sunday morning. As regarded 
that Sabbath-day journey to Chaldicotes, to that she had 
given her assent, no doubt Avith much uneasiness of mind ; 
but let them have as little desecration as possible. It Avas, 
therefore, an understood thing that he was to return with 
his friends ; but he should not go Avithout the advantage 
of family prayers and family breakfast. And so Mrs. Prou- 
die, on retiring to rest, gave the necessary orders, to the 
great annoyance of her household. 


76 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


To the great annoyance, at least, of her servants. The 
bishop himself did not make his appearance till a much 
later hour. He in all things now supported his wife’s 
rule ; in all things now, I say, for there had been a mo- 
ment when, in the first flush and pride of his episcopacy, 
other ideas had filled his mind. Now, however, he gave 
no o]3position to that good woman with whom Providence 
had blessed him ; and, in return for such conduct, that 
good woman administered in all things to his little person- 
al comforts. With what surprise did the bishop now look 
back upon that unholy war which he had once been tempt- 
ed to wage against the Avife of his bosom ? 

Nor did any of the Miss Proudies show themselves at 
that early hour. They, perhaps, were absent on a difier- 
ent ground. AVith them Mrs. Proudie had not been so 
successful as with the bishop. They had wills of their 
own, Avhich became stronger and stronger every day. Of 
tlie three with whom Mrs. Proudie was blessed, one was 
already in a position to exercise that will in a legitimate 
way over a very excellent young clergyman in the diocese, 
the Rev. Optimus Grey ; but the other two, having as yet 
no such opening for their poAvers of command, Avere per- 
haps a little too much inclined to keep themseRes in prac- 
tice at home. 

But at half past seven punctually Mrs. Proudie Avas there, 
and so was the domestic chaplain ; so Avas Mr. Robarts, 
and so Avere the household servants — all excepting one lazy 
recreant. “Where is Thomas?” said she of the Argus 
eyes, standing up with her book of family prayers in her 
hand. “ So please you, ma’am, Tummas be bad Avith the 
toothache.” “Toothache!” exclaimed Mrs. Proudie; but 
her eye said more terrible things than that. “ Let Thomas 
come to me before church.” And then they proceeded to 
prayers. These Avere read by the chaplain, as it Avas prop- 
er and decent that they should be ; but I can not but think 
that Mrs. Proudie a little exceeded her office in taking 
upon herself to pronounce the blessing when the prayers 
Avere over. She did it, hoAvever, in a clear, sonorous voice, 
and perhaps Avith more personal dignity than Avas Avithin 
the chaplain’s compass. 

Mrs. Proudie Avas rather stern at breakfast, and the Vicar 
of Framley felt an unaccountable desire to get out of the 
house. In the first place, she Avas not dressed Avith her 


TRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


V7 

usual punctilious attention to the proprieties of her high 
situation. It was evident that there was to be a farther 
toilet before she sailed up the middle of the cathedral 
choir. She had on a large loose cap, with no other strings 
than those which were wanted for tying it beneath her 
chin — a cap with which the household and the chaplain 
were well acquainted, but w’hich seemed ungracious in the 
eyes of Mr. Kobarts after all the well-dressed holiday do- 
ings of the last' week. She wore also a large, loose, dark- 
colored wrapper, which came well up round her neck, and 
which was not buoyed out, as w^ere her dresses in general, 
with an under mechanism of petticoats. It clung to her 
closely, and added to the inflexibility of her general appear- 
ance. And then she had incased her feet in large carpet 
slippers, which no doubt were comfortable, but which 
struck her visitor as being strange and unsightly. 

“ Do you And a difficulty in getting your people together 
for early morning prayers ?” she said, as she commenced 
her operations with the tea-pot. 

“ I can’t say that I do,” said Mark. “ But then we are 
seldom so early as this.” 

“ Parish clergymen should be early, I think,” said she. 
“ It sets a good example in the village.” 

“ I am thinking of having morning prayers in the 
church,” said Mr. Robarts. 

“That’s nonsense,” said Mrs. Proudie, “and usually 
means worse than nonsense. I know what that comes to. 
If you have three services on Sunday and domestic pray- 
ers at home, you do very well.” And, so saying, she hand- 
ed him his cup. 

“ But I have not three services on Sunday, Mrs. Prou- 
die.” 

“ Then I think you should have. Where can the poor 
people be so well off on Sundays as in church ? The bish- 
op intends to express a very strong opinion on this subject 
in his next charge ; and then I am sure you will attend to 
his wishes.” 

To this Mark made no answer, but devoted himself to 
his egg. 

“ I suppose you have not a very large establishment at 
Framley ?” asked Mrs. Proudie. 

“ What, at the parsonage ?” 

“Yes; you live at the parsonage, don’t you?” 


78 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Certainly — well, not very large, Mrs. Proudie ; just 
enough to do the work, make things comfortable, and look 
after the children.” 

“ It is a very fine living,” said she, “ very fine. I don’t 
remember that we have any thing so good ourselves, ex- 
cept it is Plumstead, the archdeacon’s place. He has man- 
aged to butter his bread pretty 'svell.” 

“ His father was Bishop of Barchester.” 

“ Oh yes, I know all about him. Only for that he would 
barely have risen to be an archdeacon, I suspect. Let me 
see — yours is <£800, is it not, Mr. Robarts ? And you such 
a young man ! I suppose you have insured your life 
highly.” 

“ Pretty well, Mrs. Proudie.” 

“And then, too, your wife had some little fortune, had 
she not? We can not all fall on our feet like that — can 
we, Mr. White ?” and Mrs. Proudie, in her playful way, 
appealed to the chaplain. 

Mrs. Proudie was an imperious woman ; but then so also 
was Lady Lufton ; and it may therefore be said that Mr. 
Robarts ought to have been accustomed to feminine domi- 
nation ; but as he sat there munching his toast, he could 
not but make a comparison between the two. Lady Luf- 
ton in her little attempts sometimes angered him ; but he 
certainly thought, comparing the lay lady and the clerical 
together, that the rule of the former was the lighter and 
the pleasanter. But then Lady Lufton had given him a 
living and a wife, and Mrs. Proudie had given Mm nothing. 

Immediately after breakfast Mr. Robarts escaped to the 
Dragon of Wantley, partly because he had had enough of 
tlie matutinal Mrs. Proudie, and partly also in order that 
he might hurry his friends there. He was already becom- 
ing fidgety about the time, as Harold Smith had been on 
the preceding evening, and he did not give Mrs. Smith 
credit for much punctuality. When he arrived at the inn 
he asked if they had done breakfast, and was immediately 
told that not one of them was yet down. It was already 
half past eight, and they ought to be now under way on 
the road. 

He immediately went to Mr. Sowerby’s room, and found 
that gentleman shaving himself. “ Don’t be a bit uneasy,” 
said Mr. Sowerby. “You and Smith shall have my phae- 
ton, and those horses will take you there in an hour. Hot, 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


79 


however, hut what we shall all be in time. We’ll send 
round to the whole party and ferret them out.” And then 
Mr. Sowerby, having . evoked manifold aid with various 
peals of the bell, sent messengers, male and female, flying 
to all the difierent rooms. 

“ I think I’ll hire a gig and go over at once,” said Mark. 
“ It would not do for me to be late, you know.” 

“ It won’t do for any of us to be late ; and it’s all non- 
sense about hiring a gig. It would be just throwing a sov- 
ereign away, and we should pass you on the road. Go 
down and see that the tea is made, and all that ; and make 
them have the bill ready ; and, Robarts, you may pay it 
too, if you like it. But I believe we may as well leave that 
to Baron Borneo — eh ?” 

And then Mark did go down and make the tea, and he 
did order the bill; and then he walked about the room, 
looking at his watch, and nervously waiting for the foot- 
steps of his friends. And as he was so employed, he be- 
thought himself whether it. was fit that he should be so do- 
ing on a Sunday morning ; whether it was good that he 
should be waiting there, in painful anxiety, to gallop over 
a dozen miles in order that he might not be too late with 
his sermon; whether his own snug room at home, with 
Fanny opposite to him, and his bairns crawling on the floor, 
with his own preparations for his own quiet service, and 
the warm pressure of Lady Lufton’s hand when that serv- 
ice should be over, was not better than all this. 

He could not aflbrd not to know Harold Smith, and Mr. 
Sowerby, and the Duke of Omnium, he had said to himself. 
He had to look to rise in the world, as other men did. But 
what pleasure had come to him as yet from these intima- 
cies ? How much had he hitherto done toward his rising ? 
To speak the truth, he was riot over well pleased with him- 
self as he made Mrs. Harold Smith’s tea and ordered Mr. 
Sowerby’s mutton-chops on that Sunday morning. 

At a little after nine they all assembled ; but even then 
he could not make the ladies understand that there was 
any cause for hurry; at least Mrs. Smith, who was the 
leader of the party, would not understand it. When Mark 
again talked of hiring a gig, Miss Dunstable indeed said 
that she would join him, and seemed to be so far earnest in 
the matter that Mr. Sowerby hurried through his second 
egg in order to prevent such a catastrophe. And then 


80 


PBAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


Mark absolutely did order the gig ; whereupon Mrs. Smith 
remarked that in such case she need not hurry herself ; but 
the waiter brought up word that all the horses of the hotel 
were out, excepting one pair, neither of which could go in 
single harness. Indeed, half of their stable establishment 
was already secured by Mr. Sowerby’s own party. 

“ Then let me have the pair,” said Mark, almost frantic 
with delay. 

“ N onsense, Robarts, we are ready now. He won’t want 
them, James. Come, Siipplehouse, have you done ?” 

“ Then I am to hurry myself, am I ?” said Mrs. Harold 
Smith. “ What changeable creatures you men are ! May 
I be* allowed half a cuj) more tea, Mr. Robarts ?” 

Mark, who was now really angry, turned away to the 
windoAv. There was no charity in these people, he said to 
himself. They knew the nature of his distress, and yet they 
only laughed at him. He did not, perhaps, reflect that he 
had assisted in the joke against Harold Smith on the pre- 
vious evening. 

“James,” said he, turning to the W’aiter, “let me have 
that pair of horses immediately, if you please.” 

“ Yes, sir — round in fifteen minutes, sir ; only Ned, sir, 
the post-boy, sir, I fear he’s at breakfast, sir ; but we’ll have 
him here in less than no time, sir !” 

But before Ned and the pair were there, Mrs. Smith had 
absolutely got her bonnet on, and at ten they started. 
Mark did share the phaeton Avith Harold Smith, but the 
pliaeton did not go any faster than the other carriages. 
They led the Avay, indeed, but that was all ; and when the 
vicar’s watch told him that it Avas eleven, they were still a 
mile from Chaldicotes’ gate, although the horses were in a 
lather of steam ; and they had only just entered the village 
when the church bells ceased to be heard. 

“ Come, you are in time, after all,” said Harold Smith. 
“Better time than I was last night.” Robarts could not 
explain to him that the entry of a clergyman into church 
— of a clergyman who is going to assist in the service, 
should not be made at the last minute — that it should be 
staid and decorous, and not done in scrambling haste, Avith 
running feet and scant breath. 

“ I suppose Ave’ll stop here, sir,” said the postillion, as 
he pulled up his horses short at the church door, in the 
midst of the people who Avere congregated together ready 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


81 


for the service. But Mark had not anticipated being so 
late, and said at first that it was necessary that he should 
go on to the house ; then, when the horses had again be- 
gun to move, he remembered that he could send for his 
gown, and as he got out of the carriage he gave his or- 
ders accordingly. And now the other two carriages were 
there, and so there was a noise and confusion at the door 
— very unseemly, as Mark felt it ; and the gentlemen spoke 
in loud voices, and Mrs. Harold Smith declared that she 
had no prayer-book, and was much too tired to go in at 
present; she would go home and rest herself, she said. 
And two other ladies of the party did so also, leaving Miss 
Dunstable to go alone; for which, however, she did not 
care one button. And then one of the party, who had a 
nasty habit of swearing, cursed at something as he walked 
in close to Mark’s elbow ; and so they made their way up 
the church as the .absolution was being read, and Mark 
Hobarts felt thoroughly ashamed of himself. If his rising 
in the world brought him in contact with such things as 
these, would it not be better for him that ho should do 
without rising ? 

His sermon went off without any special notice. Mrs. 
Harold Smith was not there, much to his satisfaction ; and 
the others who were did not seem to pay any special at- 
tention to it. The subject had lost its novelty, except with 
the ordinary church congregation, the farmers and labor- 
ers of the parish ; and the “ quality” in the squire’s great 
pew were content to show their sympathy by a moder- 
ate subscription. Miss Dunstable, however, gave a ten- 
pound note, which swelled up the sum total to a respecta- 
ble amount — for such a place as Chaldicotes. 

“ And now I hope I may never hear another word about 
Kew Guinea,” said Mr. Sowerby, as they all clustered 
round the drawing-room fire after church. “That subject 
may be regarded as having been killed and buried ; eh, 
Harold ?” 

“ Certainly murdered last niglit,” said Mrs. Harold, “ by 
tliat awful woman, Mrs. Proudie.” * 

“I wonder you did not make a dash at her and pull her 
out of the arm-chair,” said Miss Dunstable. “I was ex- 
pecting it, .and thought that I should come to grief in the 
scrimmage.” 

“ I never knew a lady do such a brazen-faced thing bc- 
D2 


82 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


fore,” said Miss Kerrigy, a traveling friend of Miss Dun- 
stable’s. 

“Nor I — never; in a public place, too;” said Dr. Easy- 
man, a medical gentleman, who also often accompanied her. 

“ As for brass,” said Mr. Supplehouse, “ she would never 
stop at any thing for want of that. It is well that she has 
enough, for the poor bishop is but badly provided.” 

“ I hardly heard what it was she did say,” said Harold 
Smith, “ so I could not answer her, you know. Something 
about Sundays, I believe.” 

“ She hoped you would not put the South Sea Islanders 
up lo Sabbath traveling,” said Mr. Sowerby. 

“ And specially begged that you would establish Lord’s- 
day schools,” said Mrs. Smith ; and then they all went to 
work and picked Mrs. Proudie to pieces, from the top rib- 
bon of her cap down to the sole of her slipper. 

“ And then she expects the poor parsons to fall in love 
with her daughters. That’s the hardest thing of all,” said 
Miss Dunstable. 

But, on the whole, when our vicar went to bed, he did 
not feel that he had spent a profitable Sunday. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

GATIIEEUM CASTLE. 

On the Tuesday morning Mark did receive his wife’s 
letter and the ten-pound note, whereby a strong proof was 
given of the honesty of the post-ofilce people in Barset- 
shire. That letter, written as it had been in a hurry, Avhile 
Robin post-boy was drinking a single mug of beer — well, 
what of it if it was half filled a second time? — was nev- 
ertheless eloquent of his wife’s love and of her great tri- 
umph. 

“ I have only half a moment to send you the money,” 
she said, “for the postman is here waiting. When I see 
you I’ll ex^ain why I am so hurried. Let me know that 
you get it safe. It is all right now, and Lady Lufton was 
here not a minute ago. She did not quite like it — about 
Gatherum Castle I mean ; but you’ll hear nothing about it. 
Only remember that you must dine at Framley Court on 
Wednesday week. I have promised for you. You wdll ; 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


83 


won’t you, dearest ? I shall come and fetch you away if 
you attempt to stay longer than you have said. But I’m 
sure you won’t. God bless you, my own one ! Mr. Jones 
gave us the same sermon he preached the second Sunday 
after Easter. Twice in the same year is too often. God 
bless you ! The children are quite well. Mark sends a big 
kiss. — Your own F.” 

Robarts, as he read this letter and crumpled the note 
up into his pocket, felt that it was much more satisfactory 
than he deserved. He knew that there must have been a 
fight, and that his wife, fighting loyally on his behalf, had 
got the best of it; and he knew also that her victory had 
not been owing to the goodness of her cause. He fre- 
quently declared to himself that he would not be afraid of 
Lady Lufton ; but, nevertheless, these tidings that no re- 
proaches were to be made to him afforded him great relief. 

On the following Friday they all went to the duke’s, and 
found that the bishop and Mrs. Proudie were there before 
them, as were also sundry other people, mostly of some 
note, either in the estimation of the world at large or of 
that of West Barsetshire. Lord Boanerges was there, an 
old man. who would have his own way in every thing, and 
who was regarded by all men — apparently even by the 
duke himself^^ — as an intellectual king, by no means of the 
constitutional kind — as an intellectual emperor rather, who 
took upon himself to rule all questions of mind without the 
assistance of any ministers whatever. And Baron Brawl 
was of the party, one of her majesty’s puisne judges, as 
jovial a guest as ever entered a country house, but given 
to be rather sharp withal in his jovialities. And there was 
Mr. Green Walker, a young but rising man, the same who 
lectured not long since on a j^opular subject to his con- 
stituents at the Crewe Junction. Mr. Green Walker was 
a nephew of the Marchioness of Hartletop, and the Mar- 
chioness of Hartletop was a friend of the Duke of Omni- 
um’s. Mr. Mark Robarts w^as certainly elated when he 
ascertained who composed the company of which he had 
been so earnestly pressed to make a portion. Would it 
have been wise in him to forego this on account of the 
prejudices of Lady Lufton? 

As the guests were so many and so great, the huge front 
portals of Gatherum Castle were thrown open, and the vast 
hall adorned with trophies — with marble busts from Ita- 


84 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


ly and armor from Wardour Street — was thronged with 
gentlemen and ladies, and gave forth unwonted echoes to 
many a footstep. His grace himself, when Mark arrived 
there with Sowerby and Miss Dunstable — for in this in- 
stance Miss Dunstable did travel in the phaeton, while 
Mark occupied a seat in the dicky — his grace himself was 
at this moment in the drawing-room, and nothing could 
exceed his urbanity. 

“ Oh, Miss Dunstable,” he said, taking that lady by the 
hand, and leading her up to the fire, “ now I feel for the 
first time that Gatherum Castle has not been built for noth- 

“ Nobody ever supposed it was, your grace,” said Miss 
Dunstable. “I am sure the architect did not think so 
when his bill was paid.” And Miss Dunstable put her 
toes up on the fender to warm them with as much self- 
possession as though her father had been a duke also, in- 
stead of a quack doctor. 

“We have given the strictest orders about the parrot,” 
said the duke — 

“Ah! but I have not brought him, after all,” said Miss 
Dunstable. 

“ And I have had an aviary built on purpose— just such 
as parrots are used to in their own country. Well, Miss 
Dunstable, I do call that unkind. Is it too late to send for 
him?” 

“He and Dr. Easyman are traveling together. The 
truth was, I could not rob the doctor of his companion.” 

“ Why ? I have had another aviary built for him. I de- 
clare, Miss Dunstable, the honor you are doing me is shorn 
of half its glory. But the poodle — I still trust in the 
poodle.” 

“ And your grace’s trust shall not in that respect bo 
in vain. Where is he, I wonder ?” And Miss Dunstable 
looked round as though she expected that somebody would 
certainly have brought her dog in after her. “ I declare 1 
must go and look for him — only think if they were to put 
liim among your grace’s dogs — how his morals would be 
destroyed !” 

“Miss Dunstable, is that intended to be personal ?” But 
the lady had turned away from the fire, and the duke was 
able to welcome his other guests. 

This he did with much courtesy. “ Sowerby,” he said. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


85 


“ I am glad to find that you have survived the lecture. I 
can assure you I had fears for you.” 

“ I was brought back to life after considerable delay by 
the administration of tonics at the Dragon of Wantley. 
Will your grace allow me to present to you Mr. Robarts, 
who on that occasion was not so fortunate. It was found 
necessary to carry him off to the palace, where he was 
obliged to undergo very vigorous treatment.” 

And then the duke shook hands with Mr. Robarts, as- 
suring him that he was most happy to make his acquaint- 
ance. He had often heard of him since he came into the 
county ; and then he asked after Lord Lufton, regretting 
that he had been unable to induce his lordship to come to 
Gatherum Castle. 

“ But you had a diversion at the lecture, I am told,” 
continued the duke. “There was a second performer, 
was there not, who almost eclipsed poor Harold Smith ?” 
And then Mr. Sowerby gave an amusing sketch of the 
little Proudie episode. 

“ It has, of course, ruined your brother-in-law forever as 
a lecturer,” said the duke, laughing. 

“ If so, we shall feel ourselves under the deepest obliga- 
tions to Mrs. Proudie,” said Mr. Sowerby. And then Har- 
old Smith himself came up, and received the duke’s sincere 
and hearty congratulations on the success of his enterprise 
at Barchester. 

Mark Robarts had now turned away, and his attention 
was suddenly arrested by the loud voice of Miss Dun- 
stable, who had stumbled across some very dear friends in 
her passage through the rooms, and who by no means hid 
from the public her delight upon the occasion. 

“ Well — well — well!” she exclaimed, and then she seized 
upon a very quiet-looking, well-dressed, attractive young 
woman who was walking toward her, in company with a 
gentleman. The gentleman and lady, as it turned out, 
were husband and wife. “Well — well — well! I hardly 
hoped for this.” And then she took hold of the lady and 
kissed her enthusiastically, and after that grasped both the 
gentleman’s hands, shaking them stoutly. 

“ And what a deal I shall have to say to you !” she went 
on. “ You’ll upset all my other plans. But, Mary, my 
dear, liow long are you going to stay here ? I go — let me 
gee — I forget when, but it’s all put down in a book up 


86 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


stairs. But the next stage is at Mrs. Proudie’s. I sha’n’t 
meet you there, I suppose. And now, Frank, how’s the 
governor ?” 

The gentleman called Frank declared that the governor 
was all right — “ mad about the hounds, of course, you 
know.” 

“Well, my dear, that’s better than the hounds being 
mad about him, like the poor gentleman they’ve put into 
a statue. But, talking of hounds, Frank, how badly they 
manage their foxes at Chaldicotes ! I was out hunting all 
one day — ” 

“ You out hunting !” said the lady called Mary. 

“ And why shouldn’t I go out hunting ? I’ll tell you 
what, Mrs. Proudie was out hunting too. . But they didn’t 
catch a single fox ; and, if you must have the truth, it 
seemed to me to be rather slow.” 

“ You were in the wrong division of the county,” said 
the gentleman called Frank. 

“ Of course I was. When I really want to practice hunt- 
ing I’ll go to Greshamsbury ; not a doubt about that.” 

“ Or to Boxall Hill,” said the lady ; “ you’ll find quite as 
much zeal there as at Greshamsbury.” 

“ And more discretion, you should add,” said the gen- 
tleman. 

“Ha! ha! ha !” laughed Miss Dunstable ; “your discre- 
tion indeed! But you have not told me a word about 
Lady Arabella.” 

“ My mother is quite well,” said the gentleman. 

“ And the doctor ? By-the-by, my dear, I’ve had such 
a letter from the doctor — only two days ago. I’ll show it 
you up stairs to-morrow. But, mind, it must be a posi- 
tive secret. If he goes on in this way he’ll get himself into 
the Tower, or Coventry, or a blue-book, or some dreadful 
place.” 

“ Why, what has he said ?” 

“ I^ever you mind. Master Frank ; I don’t mean to show 
you the letter, you may be sure of that. B.ut if your wife 
will swear three times on a poker and tongs that she won’t 
reveal. I’ll show it to her. And so you’re quite settled at 
Boxall Hill, are you ?” 

“Frank’s horses are settled; and the dogs nearly so,” 
said Frank’s wife ; “ but I can’t boast much of any' thing 
else yet.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


* 87 


“Well, there’s a good time coming. I must go and 
change my things now. But, Mary, mind you get near 
me this evening ; I have such a deal to say to you.” And 
then Miss Dunstable marched out of the room. 

All this had been said in so loud a voice that it was, as 
a matter of course, overheard by Mark Robarts — that part 
of the conversation, of course, I mean which had come from 
Miss Dunstable. And then Mark learned that this was 
young Frank Gresham, of Boxall Hill, son of old Mr. 
Gresham of Greshamsbury. Frank had lately married a 
great heiress — a greater heiress, men said, even than Miss 
Dunstable ; and as the marriage was hardly as yet more 
than six months old, the Barsetshire world was still full 
of it. 

“ The two heiresses seem to be very loving, don’t they ?” 
said Mr. Supplehouse. “ Birds of a feather flock together, 
you know. But they did say some little time ago that 
young Gresham was to have married Miss Dunstable him- 
self.” 

“ Miss Dunstable ! why, she might almost be his moth- 
er,” said Mark. 

“ That makes but little difierence. He was obliged to 
marry money, and I believe there is no doubt that he did 
at one time propose to Miss Dunstable.” 

“ I have had a letter from Lufton,” Mr. Sowerby said to 
him the next morning. “ He declares that the delay was 
all your fault. You were to have told Lady Lufton before 
he did any thing, and he was waiting to write about it till 
he heard from you. It seems that you never said a word 
to her ladyship on the subject.” 

“ I never did, certainly. My commission from Lufton 
was to break the matter to her when I found her in a prop- 
er humor for receiving it. If you knew Lady Lufton as 
well as I do, you would know that it is not every day that 
she would be in a humor for such tidings.” 

“ And so I was to be kept waiting indefinitely because 
you two between you were afraid of an old woman ! How- 
ever, I have not a word to say against her, and the matter 
is settled now.” 

“ Has the farm been sold ?” 

“Not a bit of it. The dowager could not bring her 
mind to sufier such j^rofanation for the Lufton acres, and 
so she sold five thousand pounds out of the funds and sent 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


83 • 

the money to Lnfton as a present — sent it to him without 
saying a word, only hoping that it would suffice for his 
wants. I wish I had a mother, I know.” 

Mark found it impossible at the moment to make any 
remark upon what had been told him, but he felt a sudden 
qualm of conscience and a wish that he was at Framley in- 
stead of at Gatherum Castle at the present moment. He 
knew a good deal respecting Lady Lufton’s income and the 
manner in which it was spent. It was very handsome for 
a single lady, but then she lived in a free and open-handed 
style ; her charities were noble ; there was no reason why 
she should save money, and her annual income was usually 
spent within the year. Mark knew this, and he knew also 
that nothing short of an impossibility to maintain them 
would induce her to lessen her charities. She had now 
given away a portion of her principal to save the property 
of her son — her son, who was so much more opulent than 
herself — upon whose means, too, the world made fewer ef- 
fectual claims. 

And Mark knew, too, something of the puiq^ose for 
which this money had gone. There had been unsettled 
gambling claims between Sowerby and Lord Lufton, orig- 
inating in affairs of the turf. It had now been going on 
for four years, almost from the period when Lord Lufton 
had become of age. He had before now spoken to Hob- 
arts on the matter with much bitter anger, alleging that 
Mr. Sowerby was treating him unfairly, nay, dishonestly; 
that he was claiming money that was not due to him ; and 
then he declared more than once that he would bring the 
matter before the Jockey Club. But Mark, knowing that 
Lord Lufton was not clear-sighted in these matters, and 
believing it to be impossible that Mr. Sowerby should act- 
ually endeavor to defraud his friend, had smoothed down 
the young lord’s anger, and recommended him to get the 
case referred to some private arbiter. All this had after- 
Avard been discussed betAveen Hobarts and Mr. SoAverby 
himself, and hence had originated their intimacy. The 
matter was so referred, Mr. SoAverby naming the referee ; 
and Lord Lufton, Avheii the matter Avas given against him, 
took it easily. His anger Avas over by that time. “I’A'e 
been clean done among them,” he said to Mark, laughing; 
“but it does not signify; a man must pay for his experi- 
ence. Of course, Sowerby thinks it all right ; I am bound 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


85 > 


to suppose so.” And then there had been some farther 
delay as to the amount, and part of the money had been 
paid to a third person, and a bill had been given, and heav- 
en and the Jews only know how much money Lord Lufton 
had paid in all ; and now it was ended by his handing over 
to some wretched villain of a money-dealer, on behalf of 
Mr. Sowerby, the enormous sum of five thousand pounds, 
w^hich had been deducted from the means of his mother. 
Lady Lufton ! 

Mark, as he thought of all this, could not but feel a cer- 
tain animosity against Mr. Sowerby — could not but sus- 
pect that he was a bad man. Nay, must he not have 
known that he was very bad? And yet he continued 
walking with him through the duke’s grounds, still talking 
about Lord Lufton’s aftairs, and still listening with inter- 
est to what Sowerby told him of his own. 

“No man was ever robbed as I have been,” said he. 
“ But I shall win through yet, in spite of them all. But 
those Jews, Mark” — he had become very intimate with 
him in these latter days — “ whatever you do, keep clear 
of them. Why, I could paper a room with their signa- 
tures; and yet I never had a claim upon one of them, 
though they always have claims on me !” 

I have said above that this affair of Lord Lufton’s was 
ended ; but it now appeared to Mark that it was not quite 
endc.l. “Tell Lufton, you know,” said Sowerby, “that 
every bit of paper with his name has been taken up, ex- 
cept what that ruffian T^zer has. Tozer may have one 
bill, I believe — something that was not given up when it 
was renewed. But I’ll make my lawyer Gumption get 
that up. It may cost ten pounds or twenty pounds, not 
more. You’ll remember that when you see Lufton, will 
you ?” 

“You’ll see Lufton, in all probability, before I shall.” 

“ Oh, did I not tell you ? He’s going to Framley Court 
at once ; you’ll find him there when you return.” 

“ Find him at Framley !” 

“Yes; this- little cadeau from his mother has touched 
his filial heart. He is rushing home to Framley to pay 
back the dowager’s hard moidores in soft caresses. I wish 
I had a mother, I know that.” 

And Mark still felt that he feared Mr. Sowerby, but ho 
could not make up his mind to break away from him. 


90 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


And there was much talk of politics just then at the cas- 
tle. Not that the duke joined in it with any enthusiasm. 
He was a Whig — a huge mountain of a colossal Whig — 
all the world knew that. No opponent would have dream- 
ed of tampering with his Whiggery, nor would any broth- 
er Whig have dreamed of doubting it. But he was a 
Whig Avho gave very little practical support to' any set of 
men, and very little practical opposition to any other set. 
He was above troubling himself with such sublunar mat- 
ters. At election time he supported, and always carried, 
Whig candidates; and in return he had been appointed 
lord lieutenant of the county by one Whig minister, and 
had received the Garter from another. But these things 
were matters of course to a Duke of Omnium. He was 
born to be a lord lieutenant and a knight of the Garter. 

But not the less on account of his apathy, or rather qui- 
escence, was it thought that Gatherum Castle was a fitting 
place in which politicians might express to each other their 
present hopes and future aims, and concoct together little 
plots in a half-serious and half-mocking way. Indeed, it 
was hinted that Mr. Supplehouse and Harold Smith, with 
one or two others, were at Gatherum for this express pur- 
pose. Mr. Fothergill, too, was a noted politician, and was 
supposed to know the duke’s mind well; and Mr. Green 
Walker, the nephew of the marchioness, was a young man 
whom the duke desired to have brought forward. Mr. 
Sowerby also was the duke’s own member, and so the oc- 
casion suited well for the interchUnge of a few ideas. 

The then prime minister, angry as many men were with 
him, had not been altogether unsuccessful. He had brought 
the Russian war to a close, which, if not glorious, was at 
any rate much more so than Englishmen at one time had 
ventured to hope. And he had had wonderful luck in that 
Indian mutiny. It is true that many of those even who 
voted with him would declare that this was in no way at- 
tributable to him. Great men had risen in India and done 
all that. Even his minister there, the governor whom he 
had sent out, was not allowed in those days any credit for 
the success which was achieved under his orders. There 
Avas great reason to doubt the man at the helm. But, 
nevertheless, he had been lucky. There is no merit in a 
public man like success ! 

But noAv, when the evil days were well-nigh over, came 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


91 


the question whether he had not been too successful. 
When a man has nailed fortune to his chariot-wheels, he 
is apt to travel about in rather a proud fashion. There 
are servants who think that their masters can not do with- 
out them; and the public also may occasionally have some 
such servant. What if this too successful minister were 
one of them ! 

And then a discreet, commonplace, zealous member of 
the Lower House does not like to be jeered at when he 
does his duty by his constituents and asks a few questions. 
An all-successful minister who can not keep his triumph to 
himself, but must needs drive about in a proud fashion, 
laughing at commonplace zealous members — laughing even 
occasionally at members who are by no means common- 
place, which is outrageous ! — may it not be as well to os- 
tracize him for a while ? 

“Had we not better throw in our shells against him?” 
says Mr. Harold Smith. 

“Let us throw in our shells, by all means,” says Mr. 
Supplehouse, mindful as Juno of his despised charms. 
And when Mr. Supplehouse declares himself an enemy, 
men know how much it means. They know that that 
much-belabored head of affairs must succumb to the terri- 
ble blows which are now in store for him. “ Yes, we will 
throw in our shells.” And Mr. Supplehouse rises from his 
chair with gleaming eyes. “ Has not Greece as noble sons 
as him? ay, and much nobler, traitor that he is. We must 
judge a man by his friends,” says Mr. Supplehouse ; and 
he points away to the East, where our dear allies the 
French are supposed to live, and where our head of affairs 
is supposed to have too close an intimacy. 

They all understand this, even Mr. Green Walker. “I 
don’t know that he is any good to any of us at all, now,” 
says the talented member for the Crewe Junction. “ He’s 
a great deal too uppish to suit my book ; and I know a 
great many people that think so too. There’s my uncle — ” 

“ He’s the best fellow in the world,” said Mr. Fothergill, 
who felt, perhaps, that that coming revelation about Mr. 
Green Walker’s uncle might not be of use to them; “but 
the fact is, one gets tired of the same man always. One 
does not like partridge every day. As for me 1 have 
nothing to do with it myself, but I would certainly like 
to change the dish.” 


92 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ If we’re merely to do as we are bid, and have no voice 
of our own, I don’t see what’s the good of going to the 
shop at all,” said Mr. Sowerby. 

“Not the least use,” said Mr. Supplehouse. “We are 
false to our constituents in submitting to such a domin- 
ion.” 

“Let’s have a change, then,” said Mr. Sowerby. “The 
matter’s pretty much in our own hands.” 

“Altogether,” said Mr. Green Walker. “That’s what 
my uncle always says.” 

“The Manchester men will only be too happy for the 
chance,” said Harold Smith. 

“And as for the high and dry gentlemen,” said Mr. 
Sowerby, “ it’s not very likely that they will object to pick 
up the fruit when we shake the tree.” 

“ As to picking up the fruit, that’s as may be,” said Mr. 
Supplehouse. Was he not the man to save the nation; 
and if so, why should he not pick up the fruit himself? 
Had not the greatest power in the country pointed him 
out as such a savior? What though the country at the 
present moment needed no more saving, might there not 
nevertheless be a good time coming? Were there not 
rumors of other wars still prevalent — if, indeed, the actual 
war then going on was being brought to a close without 
his assistance, by some other species of salvation ? He 
thought of that country to which he had pointed, and of 
that friend ot his enemies, and remembered that there 
might be still vrork for a mighty savior. The public mind 
was now awake, and understood what it was about. 
When a man gets into his head an idea that the public 
voice calls for him, it is astonishing how great becomes his 
trust in the wisdom of the public. Vox populi vox Dei. 
“ Has it not been so always ?” he says to himself, as he 
gets up and as he goes to bed. And then Mr. Supple- 
house felt that he was the master-mind there at Gather- 
um Castle, and that those there were all puppets in his 
hand. It is such a pleasant thing to feel that one’s 
friends are puppets, and that the strings are in one’s own 
possession. But what if Mr. Supplehouse himself were a 
puppet ? 

Some months afterward, when the much-belabored head 
of aifairs was in very truth made to retire, when unkind 
shells were thrown in against him in great numbers, when 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


93 


he exclaimed, ^'‘Et tu^ Brute V"* till the words were stere- 
otyped upon his lips, all men in all places talked much 
about the great Gatherum Castle confederation. The 
Duke of Omnium, the world said, had taken into his high 
consideration the state of affairs, and seeing with his ea- 
gle’s eye that the welfare of his countrymen at large re- 
quired that some great step should be initiated, he had 
at once summoned to his mansion many members of the 
Lower House, and some also of the House of Lords — men- 
tion was here especially made of the all-venerable and all- 
wise Lord Boanerges ; and men went on to say that there, 
in deep conclave, he had made known to them his views. 
It was thus agreed that the head of affairs. Whig as he 
was, must fall. The country required it, and the duke did 
his duty. This was the beginning, the world said, of that 
celebrated confederation by which the ministry was over- 
turned, and — as the Goody Twoshoes added — the country 
saved. But the Jupiter took all the credit to itself ; and 
the Jupiter was not far wrong. All the credit was due to 
the Jupiter — in that, as in every thing else. 

In the mean time the Duke of Omnium entertained his 
guests in the quiet princely style, but did not condescend 
to have much conversation on politics either with Mr. Sup- 
plehouse or with Mr. Harold Smith. And as for Lord 
Boanerges, he spent the morning on which the above-de- 
scribed conversation took place in teaching Miss Dunsta- 
ble to blow soap-bubbles on scientific principles. 

“Dear, dear!” said Miss Dunstable, as sparks of knowl- 
edge came flying in upon her mind, “I always thought 
that a soap-bubble was a soap-bubble, and I never asked 
the reason why. One doesn’t, you know, my lord.” 

“ Pardon me. Miss Dunstable,” said the old lord, “ one 
does ; but nine hundred and ninety-nine do not.” 

“And the nine hundred and ninety-nine have the best 
of it,” said Miss Dunstable. “What pleasure can one 
have in a ghost after one has seen the phosphorus rubbed 
on ?” 

“ Quite true, my dear lady. ‘ If ignorance be bliss, ’tis 
folly to be wise.’ It all lies in the ‘ if.’ ” 

Then Miss Dunstable began to sing: 

“ ‘What though I trace each herb and flower 
That sips the morning dew — ’ 

You know the rest, my lord.” 


94 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


Lord Boanerges did know almost every thing, but he 
did not know that ; and so Miss Dunstable went on : 

“ ‘Did I not own Jehovah’s power, 

How vain were all I knew.’ ” 

“Exactly, exactly. Miss Dunstable,” said his lordship; 
“ but why not own the power and trace the flower as well ? 
perhaps one might help the other.” 

Upon the whole, I am afraid that Lord Boanerges got 
the best of it. But then that is his line. He has been get- 
ting the best of it all his life. 

It was observed by all that the duke was especially at» 
tentive to young Mr. Frank Gresham, the gentleman on 
whom and on whose wife Miss Dunstable had seized so ve- 
hemently. This Mr. Gresham was the richest commoner 
in the county, and it was rumored that at the next elec- 
tion he would be one of the members for the East Riding. 
Kow the duke had little or nothing to do with the East 
Riding, and it was well known that young Gresham would 
be brought forward as a strong conservative. But, never- 
theless, his acres were so extensive and his money so plen- 
tiful that he was worth a duke’s notice. Mr. Sowerby also 
was almost more than civil to him, as was natural, seeing 
that this very young man, by a mere scratch of his pen, 
could turn a scrap of paper into a bank-note of almost fab- 
ulous value. 

“So you have the East Barsetshire hounds at Boxall 
Hill, have you not ?” said the duke. 

“ The hounds are there,” said Frank. “ But I am not 
the master.” 

“ Oh ! I understood — ” 

“ My father has them. But he flnds Boxall Hill more 
centrical than Greshamsbury. The dogs and horses have 
to go shorter distances.” 

“ Boxall Hill is very centrical.” 

“ Oh, exactly !” 

“And your young gorse coverts are doing well?” 

“ Pretty well — gorse won’t thrive every where, I find. 
I wish it would.” 

“ That’s just what I say to Fothergill ; and then, where 
there’s much wood-land, you can’t get the vermin to leave 
it.” ■ 

“ But we haven’t a tree at Boxall Hill,” said Mrs. Gre- 
sham. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


95 


‘‘Ah! yes, you’re new there, certainly; you’ve enough 
of it at Greshamsbury, m all conscience. There’s a larger 
extent of wood there than we have ; isn’t there, Fother- 
gill ?” 

Mr. Fothergill said that the Greshamsbury woods were 
very extensive, but that, perhaps, he thought — 

‘‘ Oh, ah ! I know,” said the duke. “ The Black Forest 
in its old days was nothing to Gatherum woods, according 
to Fothergil]. And then again, nothing in East Barset- 
shire could be equal to any thing in West Barsetshire. 
Isn’t that it ; eh, Fothergill ?” 

Mr. Fothergill professed that he had been brought up in 
that faith and intended to die in it. 

“Your exotics at Boxall Hill are very fine — magnifi- 
cent !” said Mr. Sowerby. 

“ I’d sooner have one full-grown oak standing in its 
pride alone,” said young Gresham, rather grandiloquently, 
“ than all the exotics in the world.” 

“ They’ll come in due time,” said the duke. 

‘‘ But the due time won’t be in my days. And so they’re 
going to cut down Chaldicotes forest, are they, Mr. Sow- 
erby?” 

“Well, I can’t tell you that. They ar6 going to disfor- 
est it. I have been ranger since I was twenty-two, and I 
don’t yet know whether that means cutting down.” 

“Not only cutting down, but rooting up,” said Mr. Foth- 
ergill. 

“ It’s a murderous shame,” said Frank Gresham ; “ and 
I will say one thing, I don’t think any but a Whig govern- 
ment would do it.” 

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed his grace. “At any rate, I’m 
sure of this,” he said, “ that if a conservative government 
did do so, the Whigs would be just as indignant as you 
are now.” 

“ I’ll tell you what you ought to do, Mr. Gresham,”* said 
Sowerby— “ put in an offer for the whole of the West Bar- 
setshire crown property ; they would be very glad to sell 
it.” 

“And we should be delighted to welcome you on this 
side of the border,” said the duke. 

Young Gresham did feel rather flattered. There were 
not many men in the county to whom such an offer could 
be made without an absurdity. It might be doubted 


96 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


whether the duke himself could purchase the Chase of 
Chaldicotes with ready money; but that he, Gresham, 
could do so — he and his wife between them — no man did 
doubt. And then Mr. Gresham thought of a former day 
when he had once been at Gatherum Castle. He had been 
poor enough then, and the duke had not treated him in 
the most courteous manner in the world. How hard it is 
for a rich man riot to lean upon his riches ! harder, indeed, 
than for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. 

All Barsetshire knew — at any rate, all West Barsetshire 
— that Miss Dunstable had been brought down in those 
parts in order that Mr. Sowerby might marry her. It 
was not surmised that Miss Dunstable herself had had any 
previous notice of this arrangement, but it was supposed 
that the thing would turn out as a matter of course. Mr. 
Sowerby had no money, but then he was witty, clever, 
good-looking, and a member of Parliament. He lived be- 
fore the world, represented an old family, and had an old 
place. How could Miss Dunstable possibly do better? 
She was not so young now, and it was time that she 
should look about her. 

The suggestion as regarded Mr. Sowerby was certainly 
true, and was not the less so as regarded some of Mr. Sow- 
erby’s friends. His sister, Mrs. Harold Smith, had devoted 
herself to the work, and with this view had run up a dear 
friendship with Miss Dunstable. The bishop had intima- 
ted, nodding his head knowingly, that it would be a very 
good thing. Mrs. Proudie had given in her adherence. 
Mr. Supplehouse had been made to understand that it 
must be a case of “ Paws off” with him as long as he re . 
mained in that part of the world ; and even the duke him- 
self had desired Fothergill to manage it. 

“He owes me an enormous sum of money,” said the 
duke, who held all Mr. Sowerby’s title-deeds, “and I 
doubt whether the security will be sufficient.” 

“ Your grace will find the security quite sufficient,” said 
Mr. Fothergill; “but, nevertheless, it would be a good 
match.” 

“Very good,” said the duke. And then it became Mr. 
Fothergill’s duty to see that Mr. Sowerby and Miss Dun- 
stable became man and wife as speedily as possible. 

Some of the party, who were more wide awake than 
others, declared that he had made the offer ; others, that 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


97 


he was just going to do so ; and one very knowing lady 
went so far at one time as to say that he was making it at 
that moment. Bets also were laid as to the lady’s answer, 
as to the terms of the settlement, and as to the period of 
the marriage, of all which poor Miss Dunstable, of course, 
knew nothing. 

Mr. Sowerby, in spite of the publicity of his proceed- 
ings, proceeded in the matter very well. He said little 
about it to those who joked with him, but carried on the 
fight with what best knowledge he had in such matters. 
But so much it is given to us to declare with certainty, 
that he had not proposed on the evening previous to the 
morning fixed for the departure of Mark Robarts. 

During the last two days Mr. Sowerby’s intimacy with 
Mark had grown warmer and warmer. He had talked 
to the vicar confidentially about the doings of these big 
wigs now present at the castle, as though there were no 
other guest there with whom he could speak in so free a 
manner. He confided, it seemed, much more in Mark 
than in his brother-in-law, Harold Smith, or in any of 
his brother members of Parliament, and had altogether 
opened his heart to him in this afiTair of his anticipated 
marriage. 'Now Mr. Sowerby was a man of mark in the 
world, and all this flattered our young clergyman not a 
little. 

On that evening, before Robarts went away, Sowerby 
asked him to come up into his bedroom when the whole 
party was breaking up, and there got him into an easy- 
chair, w'hile he, Sowerby, walked up and down the room. 

“You can hardly tell, my dear fellow,” said he, “the 
state of nervous anxiety in which this puts me.” 

“ Why don’t you ask her, and have done with it ? She 
seems to me to be fond of your society.” 

“Ah! it is not that only; there are' wheels within 
wheels and then he walked once or twice up and down 
the room, during which Maijs thought that he might as 
well go to bed. 

“Not that I mind telling you every thing,” said Sower- 
by. “ I am infernally hard up for a little ready money 
just at the present moment. It may be, and indeed I 
think it will be, the case that I shall be ruined in this mat- 
ter for the want of it.” 

# ‘ Could not Harold Smith give it you ?” 

E 


98 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“Ha! ha! ha! you don’t know Harold Smith. Did 
you ever hear of his lending a man a shilling in his life ?” 

“ Or Supplehouse ?” 

“ Lord love you ! you see me and Supplehouse together 
here, and he comes and stays at my house, and all that, 
but Supplehouse and I are no friends. Look you here, 
Mark ! I would do more for your little finger than for his 
whole hand, including the pen which he holds in it. Foth- 
ergill indeed might ; but then I know Fothergill is pressed 
himself at the present moment. It is deuced hard, isn’t 
it ? I must give up the whole game if I can’t put my 
hand upon £400 within the next two days.” 

“ Ask her for it herself.” 

“What, the woman I wish to marry! Ho, Mark, I’m 
not quite come to that. I would sooner lose her than 
that.” 

Mark sat silent, gazing at the fire and wishing that he 
was in his own bedroom. , He had an idea that Mr. Sow- 
erby wished him to produce this £400 ; and he knew also 
that he had not £400 in the world, and that if he had he 
would be acting very foolishly to give it to Mr. Sowerby. 
But, nevertheless, he felt half fascinated by the man, and 
half afraid of him. 

“ Lufton owes it to me to do more than this,” continued 
Mr. Sowerby ; “ but then Lufton is not here.” 

“ Wliy, he has just paid five thousand pounds for you.” 

“Paid five thousand pounds for me! Indeed, he has 
done no such thing; not a sixpence of it came into my 
hands. Believe me, Mark, you don’t know the whole of 
that yet. Not that I mean to say a word against Lufton. 
He is the soul of honor, though so deucedly dilatory in 
money matters. He thought he was right all through that 
affair, but no man Avas eA^er so confoundedly Avrong. 
Why, don’t you remember that that Avas the very view 
you took of it yourself?” 

“ I remember saying that k thought he Avas mistaken.” 

“ Of course he Avas mistaken. And dearly the mistake 
cost me. I had to make good the money for tAVo or three 
years. And my property is not like his. I Avish it Avere.” 

“Marry Miss Dunstable, and that Avill set it all right for 
you.” 

“ Ah ! so I Avould if I had this money. At any rate. I 
would bring it to the point. Noav I tell you what, Mare:, 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


99 


if you’ll assist me at this strait I’ll never forget it ; and the 
time will come round when I may be able to do something 
for you.” 

“ I have not got a hundred, no, not fifty pounds by me 
in the world.” 

“Of course you’ve not. Men don’t walk about the 
streets with £400 in their pockets. I don’t suppose 
there’s a single man here in the house with such a sum at 
his bankers’, unless it be the duke.” 

“ What is it you want, then ?” 

“Why, your name, to be sure. Believe me, my dear 
fellow, I would not ask you really to put your hand into 
your pocket to such a tune as that. Allow me to draw on 
you for that amount at three months. Long before that 
time I shall be flush enough.” And then, before Mark 
could answer, he had a bill stamp and pen and ink out on 
the table before him, and was filling in the bill as thougli 
his friend had already given his consent. 

“Upon my word, Sowerby, I had rather not do that.” 

“ Why ! wha4i are you afraid of?” Mr. Sowerby asked 
this very sharply. “ Did you ever hear of my having neg- 
lected to take up a bill when it fell due ?” Robarts thought 
that he had heard of such a thing ; but in his confusion he 
was not exactly sure, and so he said nothing. 

“No, my boy, I have not come to that. Look here: 
just you write, ‘Accepted, Mark Robarts,’ across that, 
and then you shall never hear of the transaction again ; 
and you will have obliged me forever.” 

“ As a clergyman, it would be wrong of me,” said Rob- 
arts. 

“ As a clergyman ! Come, Mark ! If you don’t like to 
do as much as that for a friend, say so ; but don’t let us 
have that sort of humbug. If there be one class of men 
whose names would be found more frequent on the backs 
of bills in the provincial banks than another, clergymen 
are that class. Come, old fellow, you won’t throw me 
over when I am so hard pushed.” 

Mark Robarts took the pen and, signed the bill. It was 
the first time in his life that he had ever done such an act. 
Sowerby then shook him cordially by the hand, and he 
walked ofl* to his own bedroom a wretched man. 


100 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


CHAPTER IX. 

THE vicar’s return. 

The next morning Mr. Robarts took leave of all his 
grand friends with a heavy heart. He had lain awake half 
the night thinking of what he had done, and trying to rec- 
oncile himself to his position. He had not well left Mr. 
Sowerby’s room before he felt certain that at the end of 
three months he would again be troubled about that <£400. 
As he went along the passage all the man’s known anteced- 
ents crowded upon him much quicker than he could re- 
member them when seated in that arm-chair with the bill 
stamp before him, and the pen and ink ready to his hand. 
He remembered what Lord Lufton had told him — how he 
had complained of having been left in the lurch ; he thought 
of all the stories current through the entire county as to 
the impossibility of getting money from Chaldicotes ; he 
brought to mind the known character of the man, and then 
he knew that he must prepare himself to make good a por- 
tion at least of that heavy payment. 

Why had he come to this horrid place? Had he not 
every thing at home at Framley which the heart of man 
could desire? Xo ; the heart of man can desire deaneries 
— the heart, that is, of the man vicar ; and the heart of the 
man dean can desire bishoprics ; and before the eyes of the 
man bishop does there not loom the transcendental glory 
of Lambeth ? He had owned to himself that he was am- 
bitious, but he had to own to himself now also that he had 
hitherto taken but a sorry path toward the object of his 
ambition. 

On the next morning at breakfast-time, before his horse 
and gig arrived for him, no one was so bright as his friend 
Sowerby. “ So you are oif, are you ?” said he. 

“Yes, I shall go this morning.” 

“ Say every thing that’s kind from me to Lufton. I may 
possibly see him out hunting, otherwise we sha’n’t meet 
till the spring. As to my going to Framley, that’s out of 
the question. Her ladyship would look for my tail, and 
swear that she smelt brimstone. By-by, old fellow !” 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


101 


The German student, when he first made his bargain 
with the devil, felt an indescribable attraction to his new 
friend, and such was the case now with Robarts. He 
shook Sowerby’s hand very warmly, said that he hoped he 
should meet him soon somewhere, and professed himself 
specially anxious to hear how that alfair with the lady 
came off. As he had made his bargain — as he had under- 
taken to pay nearly half a year’s income for his dear friend, 
ought he not to have as much value as possible for his mon- 
ey ? If the dear friendship of this flash member of Parlia- 
ment did not represent that value, what else did do so ? 
But then he felt, or fancied that he felt, that Mr. Sowerby 
did not care for him so much this morning as he had done 
on the previous evening. “By-by,” said Mr. Sowerby, 
but he spoke no word as to such future meetings, nor did 
he even promise to write. Mr. Sowerby probably had 
many things on his mind, and it might be that it behooved 
him, having finished one piece of business, immediately to 
look to another. 

The sum for which Robarts had made himself responsi- 
ble — which he so much feared that he would be called upon 
to pay, was very nearly half a year’s income, and as yet he 
had not put by one shilling since he had been married. 
When he found himself settled in his parsonage, he found 
also that all the world regarded him as a rich man. He 
had taken the dictum of all the world as true, and had set 
himself to work to live comfortably. He had no absolute 
need of a curate, but he could afford the £70 — as Lady 
Lufton had said rather injudiciously; and by keeping 
Jones in the parish he would be acting charitably to a 
brother clergyman, and would also place himself in a more 
independent position. Lady Lufton had wished to see her 
pet clergyman well-to-do and comfortable ; but now, as 
matters had turned out, she much regretted this affair of 
the curate. Mr. Jones, she said to herself, more than 
once, must be made to depart from Framley. 

He had given his wife a pony-carriage, and for himself he 
had a saddle-horse, and a second horse for his gig. A man 
in his position, well-to-do as he was, required as much as that. 
He had a footman also, and a gardener, and a groom. The 
two latter were absolutely necessary, but about the former 
there had been a question. His wife had been decidedly 
hostile to the footman ; but, in all such matters as that, to 


102 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


doubt is to be lost. When the footman had been discuss- 
ed for a week, it became quite clear to the master that he 
also was a necessary. 

As he drove home that morning he pronounced to him- 
self the doom of that footman, and the doom also of that 
saddle-horse. They, at any rate, should go. And then he 
would spend no more money in trips to Scotland; and, 
above all, he would keep out of the bedrooms of impover- 
ished members of Parliament at the witching hour of mid- 
night. Such resolves did he make to himself as he drove 
home, and bethought himself wearily how that £400 might 
be made to be forthcoming. As to any assistance in the 
matter from Sowerby, of that he gave himself no promise. 

But he almost felt himself happy again as his wife came 
out into the porch to meet him, with a silk shawl over her 
head, and pretending to shiver as she watched him de- 
scending from his gig. 

“My dear old man,” she said, as she led him into the 
warm drawing-room with all his wrappings still about 
him, “you must be starved.” But Mark during the whole 
drive had been thinking too much of that transaction in 
Mr. Sowerby’s bedroom to remember that the air was 
cold. Now he had his arm round his own dear Fanny’s 
waist ; but was he to tell her of that transaction ? At any 
rate, he would not do it now, while his two boys were in 
his arms, rubbing the moisture from his whiskers with their 
kisses. After all, what is there equal to that coming home ? 

“ And so Lufton is here. I say, Frank, gently old boy” 
— Frank was his eldest son — “ you’ll have baby into the 
fender.” 

“ Let me take baby ; it’s impossible to hold the two of 
them, they are so strong,” said the proud mother. “ Oh 
yes, he came home early yesterday.” 

“ Have you seen him ?” 

“He was here yesterday, with her ladyship; and I 
lunched there to-day. The letter came, you know, in time 
to stop the Merediths. They don’t go till to-morrow, so 
you will meet them after all. Sir George is wild about it, 
but Lady Lufton would have her way. You never saw 
her in such a state as she is.” 

“ Good spirits, eh ?” 

“ I should think so. All Lord Lufton’s horses are com- 
ing, and he’s to be here till March.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


103 


“Till Marcli!” 

“ So her ladyship wliispered to me. She could not con- 
ceal her triumph at his coming. He’s going to give up 
Leicestershire this year altogether. I ‘wonder what has 
brought it all about?” Mark knew very well what had 
brought it about; he had been made acquainted, as the 
reader has also, with the price at which Lady Lufton had 
purchased her son’s visit. But no one had told Mrs. Bob- 
arts that the mother had made her son a present of five 
thousand pounds. 

“ She’s in a good-humor about every thing now,” con- 
tinued Fanny, “ so you need say nothing at all about Gath- 
erum Castle.” 

“ But she -was very angry when she first heard it, was 
she not ?” 

“Well, Mark, to tell the truth, she was; and we had 
quite a scene there up in her own room up stairs — Justinia 
and I. She had lieard something else that she did not like 
at the same time ; and then — ^but you know her way. She 
blazed up quite hot.” 

“ And said all manner of horrid things about me ?” 

“About the duke she did. You know she never did 
like the duke ; and, for the matter of fact, neither do 1. I 
tell you that fairly. Master Mark !” 

“ The duke is not so bad as he’s painted.” 

“ Ah ! that’s what you say about another great person. 
However, he won’t come here to trouble us, I suppose. 
And then I left her, not in the best temper in the world ; 
for I blazed up too, you must know.” 

“ I am sure you did,” said Mark, pressing his arm round 
her waist. 

“ And then Ave were going to have a dreadful war, I 
thought ; and I came home and wrote such a doleful letter 
to you. But what should happen, when I had just closed 
it, but in came her ladyship — all alone, and — But I can’t 
tell you Avhat she did or said, only she behaved beautiful- 
ly ; just like herself too ; so full of love, and truth, and hon- 
esty. There’s nobody like her, Mark ; and she’s better than 
all the dukes that ever Avore — Avhatever dukes do Avear.” 

“ Horns and hoofs ; that’s their usual apparel, according 
to you and Lady Lufton,” said he, remembering Avhat Mr. 
Sowerby had said of himself. 

“You may say what you like about me, Mark, but you 


104 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


sha’n’t abuse Lady Lufton. And if horns and hoofs mean 
wickedness and dissipation, I believe it’s not far wrong. 
But get off your big coat and make yourself comfortable.” 
And that was all the scolding that Mark Robarts got from 
his wife on the occasion of his great iniquity. 

“ I will certainly tell her about this bill transaction,” he 
said to himself, “ but not to-day — not till after I have seen 
Lufton.” 

That evening they dined at Framley Court, and there 
they met the young lord; they found also Lady Lufton 
still in high good-humor. Lord Lufton himself was a fine, 
bright-looking young man, not so tall as Mark Robarts, 
and with perhaps less intelligence marked on his face ; but 
his features were finer, and there was in his countenance 
a thorough appearance of good-humor and sweet temper. 
It was, indeed, a pleasant face to look upon, and dearly 
Lady Lufton loved to gaze at it. 

“Well, Mark, so you have been among the Philistines?” 
that was his lordship’s first remark. Robarts laughed as 
he took his friend’s hands, and bethought himself how 
truly that was the case; that he was, in very truth, already 
“ himself in bonds under Philistian yoke.” Alas ! alas ! it 
is very hard to break asunder the bonds of the latter-day 
Philistines. When a Samson does now and then pull a 
temple down about their ears, is he not sure to be ingulfed 
in the ruin with them ? There is no horse-leech that sticks 
so fast as your latter-day Philistine. 

“ So you have caught Sir George, after all,” said Lady 
Lufton, and that was nearly all she did say in allusion 
to his absence. There was afterward some conversation 
about the lecture, and, from her ladyship’s remarks, it cer- 
tainly was apparent that she did not like the people among 
whom the vicar had been lately staying ; but she said no 
word that was personal to him himself, or that could be 
taken as a reproach. The little episode of Mrs. Proudie’s 
address in the lecture-room had already reached Framley, 
and it was only to be expected that Lady Lufton should 
enjoy the joke. She would affect to believe that the body 
of the lecture had been given by the bishop’s wife ; and 
afterward, when Mark described her costume at that Sun- 
day morning breakfast-table. Lady Lufton would assume 
that such had been the dress in which she had exercised 
her faculties in public. 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


105 


“ I would have given a five-pouijd note to have heard it,” 
said Sir George. 

“ So would not I,” said Lady Lufton. “ When one hears 
of such things described so graphically as Mr. Robarts now 
tells it, one can hardly help laughing. But it would give 
me great pain to see the wife of one of our bishops place 
herself in such a situation ; for he is a bishop, after all.” 

“ Well, upon my word, my lady, I agree with Meredith,” 
said Lord Lufton. “It must have been good fun. As it 
did happen, you know — as the church was doomed to the 
disgrace, I should like to have heard it.” 

“ I know you Avould have been shocked, Ludovic.” 

“ I should have got over that in time, mother. It would 
have been like a bull-fight, I suppose ; horrible to see, no 
doubt, but extremely interesting. And Harold Smith, 
Mark, what did he do all the while?” 

“ It didn’t take so very long, you know,” said Robarts. 

“ And the poor bishop,” said Lady Meredith, “ how did 
he look ? I really do pity him.” 

“ Well, he was asleep, I think.” 

“ What, slept through it all ?” said Sir George. 

“It awakened him; and then he jumped up and said 
something.” 

“ What, out loud too ?” 

“ Only one word or so.” 

“What a disgraceful scene!” said Lady Lufton. “To 
those who remember the good old man who was in the 
diocese before him it is perfectly shocking. He confirmed 
you, Ludovic, and you ought to remember him. It was 
over at Barchester, and you went and lunched with him 
afterward.” 

“ I do remember ; and especially this, that I never ate 
such tarts in my life, before or since. The old man par- 
ticularly called my attention to them, and seemed remark- 
ably pleased that I concurred in his sentiments. There 
are no such tarts as those going in the palace now. I’ll be 
bound.” • 

“ Mrs. Proudie will be very happy to do her best for you 
if you will go and try,” said Sir George. 

“ I beg that he will do no such thing,” said Lady Lufton, 
and that was the only severe word she said about any of 
Mark’s visitings. 

As Sir George Meredith was there, Robarts could say 
E 2 


106 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


nothing then to Lord Lufton about Mr. Sowerby and Mr. 
Sowerby’s money alFairs ; but he did make an appointment 
for a tke-a-tete on the next morning. 

“You must come down and see my nags, Mark; they 
came to-day. The Merediths will be off at twelve, and 
then we can have an hour together.” Mark said he would, 
and then went home with his wife under his arm. 

“Well, now, is not she kind?” said Fanny, as soon as 
they were out on the gravel together. 

“ She is kind ; kinder than I can tell you just at present. 
But did you ever know any thing so bitter as she is to the 
poor bishop ? And really the bishop is not so bad.” 

“ Yes, I know something much more bitter, and that is 
what she thinks of the bishop’s wife. And you know, 
Mark, it was so unladylike, her getting up in that way. 
What must the people of Barchester think of her ?” 

“ As far as I could see, the peoj^le of Barchester liked it.” 

“ Nonsense, Mark, they could not. But never mind that 
now. I want you to own that she is good.” And then 
Mrs. Robarts went on with another long eulogy on the 
dowager. Since that affair of the pardon-begging at the 
parsonage Mrs. Robarts hardly knew how to think well 
enough of her friend. And the evening had been so pleas- 
ant after the dreadful storm and threatenings of hurricanes ; 
her husband had been so well received after his lapse of 
judgment ; the wounds that had looked so sore had been 
so thoroughly healed, and every thing was so pleasant. 
How all of this would have been changed had she had 
known of that little bill ! 

At twelve the next morning the lord and the vicar were 
’\ralking through the Framley stables together. Quite a 
commotion had been made there, for the larger portion of 
these buildings had of late years seldom been used. But 
now all was crowding and activity. Seven or eight very 
precious animals had followed Lord Lufton from Leices- 
tershire, and all of them required dimensions that were 
thought to-be rather excessive by the Framley old-fash- 
ioned groom. My lord, however, had a head man of his 
own who took the matter quite into his own hands. 

Mark, priest as he was, was quite worldly enough to be 
fond of a good horse, and for some little time allowed 
Lord Lufton to descant on the merit of this four-year-old 
filly, and that magnificent Rattlebones colt, out of a Mouse- 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


107 


trap mare ; but he liad other things that lay heavy on his 
mind, and after bestowing half an hour on the stud, he 
contrived to get his friend away to the shrubbery walks. 

“So you have settled with Sowerby,” Robarts began 
by saying. 

“ Settled with him — yes ; but do you know the price ?” 

“ I believe that you have paid five thousand pounds.” 

‘•Yes, and about three before; and that in a matter in 
which I did not really owe one shilling. Whatever I do 
in future. I’ll keep out of Sowerby’s grip.” 

“ But you don’t think he has been unfair to you ?” 

“ Mark, to tell you the truth, I have banished the afiair 
from my mind, and don’t wish to take it up again. My 
mother has paid the money to save the property, and of 
course I must pay her back. But I think I may promise 
that I will not have any more money dealings with Sow- 
erby. I will not say that he is dishonest, but, at any rate, 
he is sharp.” 

“Well, Lufton, what will you say when I tell you that 
I have put my name to a bill for him for four hundred 
pounds ?” 

“ Say! why I should say — but you’re joking; a man in 
your position would never do such a thing.” 

“ But I have done it.” 

Lord Lufton gave a long low whistle. 

“ He asked me the last night that I was there, making a 
great favor of it, and declaring that no bill of his had ever 
yet been dishonored.” 

Lord Lufton whistled again. “Ho bill of his dishonor- 
ed ! Why, the pocket-books of the Jews are stufied full 
of his dishonored papers. And you have really given him 
your name for four hundred pounds ?” 

“I have, certainly.” 

“ At what date ?” 

“ Three months.” « 

“ And have you thought where you are to get the mon- 
ey ?” 

“ I know very well that I can’t get it — not at least by 
that time. The bankers must renew it for me, and I must 
pay it by degrees — that is, if Sowerby really does not take 
it up.” 

“ It is just as likely that he will take up the national 
debt.” 


108 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Robarts then told him about the projected marriage 
with Miss Dunstable, giving it as his opinion that the lady 
would probably accept the gentleman. 

“ Not at all improbable,” said his lordship, “ for Sowerby 
is an agreeable fellow ; and if it be so, he will have all that 
he wants for life. But his creditors will gain nothing. 
The duke, who has liis title-deeds, will doubtless get his 
money, and the estate will in fact belong to the wife. But 
the small fry, such as you, wdll not get a shilling.” 

Poor Mark ! He had had an inkling of this before, but 
it had hardly presented itself to him in such certain terms. 
It was, then, a positive fact, that in punishment for his 
Aveakness in having signed that bill, he would have to pay, 
not only four hundred pounds, but four hundred pounds 
with interest, and expenses of renewal, and commission, 
and bill stamps. Yes, he had certainly got among the 
Philistines during that visit of his to the duke. It began 
to appear to him pretty clearly that it would have been 
better for him to have relinquished altogether the glories 
of Chaldicotes and Gatherum Castle. 

And now, how was he to tell his wife ? 


CHAPTER X. 

LUCY ROBARTS. 

And now, how was he to tell his wife ? That was the 
consideration heavy on Mark Robarts’ mind when last we 
left him, and he turned the matter often in his thoughts 
before he could bring himself to a resolution. At last he 
did do so, and one may say that it was not altogether a 
bad one, if only he could carry it out. 

He would ascertain in Avhat bank that bill of his had been 
discounted. He would ask Sowerby, and if he coul(f not 
learn from him, he Avould go to the three banks in Bar- 
chester. That it had been taken to one of them he felt 
tolerably certain. He Avould explain to the manager his 
conviction that he Avould have to make good the amount, 
his inability to do so at the end of the three months, and 
the whole state of his income ; and then the banker Avould 
explain to him hoAV the matter might be arranged. He 
thought that he could pay £50 every three months with 
interest. As soon as this should have been concerted with 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


109 


the banker, he would let his wife know all about it. Were 
he to tell her at the present moment, while the matter was 
all unsettled, the intelligence would frighten her into illness. 

But on the next morning there came to him tidings by 
the hands of Robin postman which for a long while upset 
all his plans. The letter was from Exeter. His father 
had been taken ill, and had very quickly been pronounced 
to be in danger. That evening — the evening on which 
his sister wrote — the old man was much worse, and it was 
desirable that Mark should go off to Exeter as quickly as 
possible. Of course he went to Exeter, again leaving the 
Framley souls at the mercy of the Welsh Low-Churchman. 
Eramley is only four miles from Silverbridge, and at Sil- 
verbridge he was on the direct road to the west. He was 
therefore at Exeter before nightfall on that day. 

But nevertheless he arrived there too late to see his fa- 
ther again alive. The old man’s illness had been sudden 
and rapid, and he expired without again seeing his eldest 
son. Mark arrived at the house of mourning just as they 
were learning to realize the full change in their position. 

The doctor’s career had been, on the whole, successful, 
but nevertheless he did not leave behind him as much 
money as the world hud given him credit for possessing. 
Who ever does ? Dr. Robarts had educated a large fam- 
ily, had always lived with every comfort, and had never 
possessed a shilling but what he had earned himself. A 
physician’s fees come in, no doubt, with comfortable rapid- 
ity as soon as rich old gentlemen and middle-aged ladies 
begin to put their faith in him, but fees run out almost with 
equal rapidity when a wife and seven children are treated 
to every thing that the world considers most desirable. 
Mark, we have seen, had been educated at Harrow and 
Oxford, and it may be said, therefore, that he had received 
his patrimony early in life. For Gerald Robarts, the sec- 
ond brother, a commission had been bought in a crack 
regiment. He also had been lucky, having lived and be- 
come a captain in the Crimea; and the purchase-money 
was- lodged for his majority. And John Robarts, the 
youngest, was a clerk in the Petty Bag Office, and was al- 
ready assistant private secretary to the Lord Petty Bag 
himself— a place of considerable trust, if not hitherto of 
large emolument ; and on his education money had been 
spent freely, for in these days a young man can not get 


110 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


into the Petty Bag Office without knowing at least three 
modern languages ; and he must be well up in trigonom- 
etry too, in Bible theology, or in one dead language — at 
his option. 

And the doctor had four daughters. The two elder 
were married, including that Blanche with whom Lord 
Lufton was to have fallen in love at the vicar’s wedding. 
A Devonshire squire had done this in the lord’s place ; 
but on marrying her it was necessary that he should have 
a few thousand pounds, two or three perhaps, and the old 
doctor had managed that they should be forthcoming. 
The elder also had not been sent away from the paternal 
mansion quite empty-handed. There were, therefore, at 
the time of the doctor’s death, two children left at home, 
of whom one only, Lucy, the younger, will come much 
across us in the course of our story. 

Mark staid for ten days at Exeter, he and the Devon- 
shire squire having been named as executors in the will. 
In this document it was explained that the doctor trusted 
that provision had been made for most of his children. As 
for his dear son Mark, he said, he -was aware that he need 
be under no uneasiness. On hearing this read Mark smiled 
sweetly and looked very gracious ^ but, nevertheless, his 
heart did sink somewhat within him, for there had been a 
hope that a small windfall, coming now so opportunely, 
might enable him to rid himself at once of that dreadful 
Sowerby incubus. And then the will went on to declare 
that Mary, and Gerald, and Blanche had also, by God’s 
providence, been placed beyond want. And here, looking 
into the squire’s face, one might have thought that hts 
heart fell a little also, for he had not so full a command of 
his feelings as his brother-in-law, who had been so much 
more before the world. To John, the assistant private 
secretary, was left a legacy of a thousand pounds ; and to 
Jane and Lucy certain sums in certain four per cents., 
which were quite sufficient to add an efficient value to the 
hands of those young ladies in the eyes of most prudent 
young would-be Benedicts. Over and beyond this there 
was nothing I)ut the furniture, which he desired might be 
sold, and the proceeds divided among them all. It might 
come to sixty or seventy pounds a piece, and pay the ex- 
penses incidental on his death. 

And then all men and women there and thereabouts said 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Ill 


that old Dr. Robarts had done well. His life had been 
good and prosperous, and his will was just. And Mark, 
among others, so declared, and was so convinced, in spite 
of his own little disappointment. And on the third morn- 
ing after the reading of the will. Squire Crowdy, of Cream- 
clotted Hall, altogether got over his grief, and said that it 
was all right. And then it was decided that Jane should 
go home with him — for there was a brother squire who, it 
was thought, might have an eye to Jane ; and Lucy, the 
younger, should be taken to Framley Parsonage. In a 
fortnight from the receipt of that letter Mark arrived at his 
own house with his sister Lucy under his wing. 

All this interfered greatly with Mark’s wise resolution 
as to the Sowerby-bill incubus. In the first place, he could 
not get to Barchester as soon as he had intended, and then 
an idea came across him that possibly it might be well that 
lie should borrow the money bf his brother John, explain- 
ing the circumstances of course, and paying him due inter- 
est. But he had not liked to broach the subject when 
they were there in Exeter, standing, as it were, over their 
father’s grave, and so the matter was postponed. There 
was still ample time for arrangement before the bill would 
come due, and he would not tell Fanny till he had mac]e 
up his mind what that arrangement would be. It would 
kill her, he said to himself over and over again, were he to 
tell her of it without being able to tell her also thaf the 
means of liquidating the debt were to be forthcoming. 

And now I must say a word about Lucy Robarts. If 
one might only go on without those descriptions, how 
pleasant it would all be ! But Lucy Robarts has to play a 
forward part in this little drama, and those who care for 
such matters must be made to understand something of 
her form and likeness. When last we mentioned her as 
appearing, though not in any prominent positioh, at her 
brother’s wedding, she was only sixteen ; but now, at the 
time of her father’s death, somewhat over two years having 
since elapsed, she was nearly nineteen. Laying aside, for 
the sake of clearness, that indefinite term of girl — ^for girls 
are girls from the age of three up to forty-three, if not 
previously married — dropping that generic word, we may 
say that then, at that wedding of her brother, she was a 
child, and now, at the death of her father, she was a woman. 

Hothing, perhaps, adds so much to womanhood, turns 


112 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


the child so quickly into a woman, as such death-bed scenes 
as these. Hitherto but little had fallen to Lucy to do in 
the way of woman’s duties. Of money transactions she had 
known nothing beyond a jocose attempt to make her annual 
allowance of twenty-five pounds cover all her personal wants 
— an attempt Avhich was made jocose by the loving bounty 
of her father. Her sister, who was three years her elder — 
for John came in between them — had managed the house ; 
that is, she made the tea, and talked to the housekeeper 
about the dinners. But Lucy had sat at her father’s elbow, 
had read to him of evenings when he went to sleep, had 
brought him his slippers and looked after the comforts of 
his easy-chair. All this she had done as a child ; but when 
she stood at the cofiin head, and knelt at the cofiin side, 
then she was a woman. 

She was smaller in stature than either of her three sis- 
ters, to all of whom had be^ acceded the praise of being 
fine women — a eulogy which the people of Exeter, looking 
back at the elder sister, and the general remembrance of 
them Avhich pervaded the city, were not willing to extend 
to Lucy. “ Dear ! dear !’^ had been said of her, “ poor Lucy 
is not like a Robarts at all ; is she, now, Mrs. Pole ?” for, as 
the daughters had grown into fine women, so had the sons 
grown into stalwart men. And then Mrs. Pole had answer- 
ed, “Hot a bit; is she, now? Only think what Blanche 
was at her age. But she has fine eyes for all that ; and 
they do say she is the cleverest of them all.” 

And that, too, is so true a description of her, that I do 
not know that I can add much to it. She Avas not like 
Blanche ; for Blanche had a bright complexion, and a fine 
neck, and a noble bust, et vera incessu patuit Dea — a true 
goddess, that is, as far as 'the eye went. She had a grand 
idea, moreover, of an apple-pie, and had not reigned eight- 
een months at Creamclotted Hall before she kneAV all the 
mysteries of pigs and milk, and most of those appertaining 
to cider and green geese. Lucy had no neck at all worth 
speaking of— no neck, I mean, that ever produced elo- 
quence ; she Avas broAvn, too, and had addicted herself in 
no Avise, as she undoubtedly should have done, to larder 
utility. In regard to the neck and color, poor girl, she 
could not help herself; but in that other respect she must 
be held as having Avasted her opportunities. ^ 

But then Avhat eyes she had ! Mrs. Pole Avas right there. 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


113 


They flashed upon you — not always softly ; indeed, not 
often softly, if you were a stranger to her ; but, whether 
softly or savagely, with a brilliancy that dazzled you as you 
looked at them. And who shall say of what color they 
were ? Green probably, for most eyes are green — green 
or gray, if green be thought uncomely for an eye-color. But 
it was not their color, but their fire, which struck one with 
such surprise. 

Lucy Kobarts was thoroughly a brunette. Sometimes 
the dark tint of her cheek •was exquisitely rich and lovely, 
and the fringes of her eyes were long and soft, and her small 
teeth, which one so seldom saw, were white as pearls, and 
her hair, though short, was beautifully soft — ^by no means 
black, but yet of so dark a shade of brown. Blanche, too, 
was noted for fine teeth. They were white and regular, 
and lofty as a new row of houses in a French city. But 
then, when she laughed, she was all teeth, as she was all 
neck when she sat at the piano. But Lucy’s teeth — it was 
only now and again, when in some sudden burst of wonder 
she would sit for a moment with her lips apart, that the 
fine finished lines and dainty pearl-white color of that per- 
fect set of ivory could be seen. Mrs. Pole would have said 
a word of her teeth also, but that to her they had never been 
made visible. 

“ But they do say she is the cleverest of them all,” Mrs. 
Pole liad added, very properly. The people of Exeter had 
expressed such an opinion, and had been quite just in doing 
so. I do not know how it happens, but it always does hap- 
pen, that every body in every small town knows which is 
the brightest-witted in every family. In this respect Mrs. 
Pole had only expressed public opinion, and public opinion 
was right. Lucy Robarts was blessed with an intelligence 
keener than that of her brothers or sisters. 

“ To tell the truth, Mark, I admire Lucy more than I do 
Blanche.” This had been said by Mrs. Robarts within a 
few hours of her having assumed that name. “ She’s not 
a beauty, I know, but yet I do.” 

“ My dearest Fanny !” Mark had answered, in a tone of 
surprise. 

“ I do, then ; of course, peo23le won’t think so ; but I nev- 
er seem to care about regular beauties. Perhaps I envy 
them too much.” 

What Mark said next need not be repeated, but every 


114 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


body may be sure that it contained some gross flattery for 
his young bride. He remembered this, however, and had 
always called Lucy his wife’s pet. Heither of the sisters 
had since that been at Framley ; and though Fanny had 
spent a week at Exeter on the occasion of Blanche’s mar- 
riage, it could hardly be said that she was very intimate 
with them. IN’evertheless, when it became expedient that 
one of them should go to Framley, the remembrance of 
what his wife had said immediately induced Mark to make 
the ofier to Lucy; and Jane, who was of a kindred soul 
with Blanche, was delighted to go Creamclotted Hall. The 
acres of Heavybed House, down in that fat Totnes country, 
adjoined those of Creamclotted Hall, and Heavybed House 
still wanted a mistress. 

Fanny was delighted when the news reached her. It 
w'ould, of course, be proper that one of his sisters should 
live with Mark under their present circumstances, and she 
was happy to think that that quiet little bright-eyed crea- 
ture was to come and nestle with her under the same roof. 
The children should so love her — only not quite so much 
as they loved mamma; and the snug little room that looks 
out over the porch, in which the chimney never smokes, 
should be made ready for her ; and she should be allowed 
her share of driving the pony — which was a great sacrifice 
of self on the part of Mrs. Bobarts, and Lady Lufton’s best 
good-will should be bespoken. In fact, Lucy was not un- 
fortunate in the destination that was laid out for her. 

Lady Lufton had of course heard of the doctor’s death, 
and had sent all manner of kind messages to Mark, advis- 
ing him not to hurry home by any means until every thing 
was settled at Exeter. And then she was told of the new- 
comer that was expected in the parish. When she heard 
that it was Lucy, the younger, she also was satisfied ; for 
Blanche’s charms, though indisputable, had not been alto- 
gether to her taste. If a second Blanche were to arrive 
there, what danger might there not be for young Lord Luf- 
ton ! 

“ Quite right,” said her ladyship ; “just what he ought 
to do. I think I remember the young lady; rather small, 
is she not, and very retiring ?” 

Rather small and very retiring. What a description !” 
said Lord Lufton. 

“Never mind, Ludovic; some young ladies must be small, 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


115 


and some, at least, ought to be retiring. We shall be de- 
lighted to make her acquaintance.” 

“ I remember your other sister-in-law very Avell,” said 
Lord Lufton. “ She was a beautiful woman.” 

“I don’t' think you will consider Lucy a beauty,” said 
Mrs. Robarts. 

“ Small, retiring, and — ” so far Lord Lufton had gone, 
when Mrs. Robarts finished by the word “ plain.” She had 
liked Lucy’s face, but she had thought that others probably 
did not do so. 

“ Upon my word,” said Lady Lufton, “ you don’t deserve 
to have a sister-in-law. I remember her very well, and can 
say that she is not plain. I was very much taken with her 
manner at your wedding, my* dear, and thought more of her 
than I did of the beauty, I can tell you.” 

“ I must confess I do not remember her at all,” said his 
lordship. And so the conversation ended. 

And then, at the end of the fortnight, Mark arrived with 
his sister. They did not reach Framley till long after dark 
— somewhere between six and seven, and by this time it 
A\’'as December. There was snow on the ground, and frost 
in the air, and no moon, and cautious men, when they went 
on the roads, had their horses’ shoes cocked. Such being 
the state of the weather, Mark’s gig had been nearly filled 
with cloaks and shawls when it was sent over to Silver- 
bridge. And a cart was sent for Lucy’s luggage, and all 
manner of preparations had been made. Three times had 
Fanny gone herself to see that the fire burned brightly in 
the little room over the porch, and at the moment that the 
sound of the wheels was heard she was engaged in open- 
ing her son’s mind as to the nature of an aunt. Hitherto 
papa and mamma and Lady Lufton were all that he had 
known, excepting, of course, the satellites of the nursery. 

And then, in three minutes, Lucy was standing by the 
fire. Those three minutes had been taken up in embraces 
between the husband and the wife. Let who would be 
brought as a visitor to the house, after a fortnight’s ab- 
sence, she would kiss him before she welcomed any one 
else. But then she turned to Lucy, and began to assist her 
with her cloaks. 

“ Oh, thank you,” said Lucy ; “ I’m not cold— not very, 
at least. Don’t trouble yourself; I can do it.” But here 
she had made a false boast, for her fingers had been so 
numbed that she could do nor undo any thing. 


IIG 


FRAIVILET PARSONAGE. 


They were not all in black, of course ; but the sombre- 
ness of Lucy’s clothes struck Fanny much more than her 
own. They seemed to have swallowed her up in their 
blackness, and to have made her almost an emblem of 
death. She did not look up, but kept her face turned to- 
ward the fire, and seemed almost afraid of her position. 

“She may say what she likes, Fanny,” said Mark, “but 
she is very cold. And so am I — cold enough. You had 
better go up with her to her room. We won’t do much 
in the dressing ’way to-night ; eh, Lucy ?” 

In the bedroom Lucy thawed a little, and Fanny, as she 
kissed her, said to herself that she had been wrong as to 
that word “ plain.” . Lucy, at any rate, was not plain. 

“You will be used to us soon,” said Fanny, “and then 
I hope we shall make you comfortable.” And she took 
her sister-in-law’s hand and pressed it. 

Lucy looked up at her, and her eyes then were tender 
enough. “ I am sure I shall be happy here,” she said, “ with 
you. But — but — dear papa!” And then they got into 
each other’s arms, and had a great bout of kissing and cry- 
ing. “ Plain,” said Fanny to herself, as at last she got her 
guest’s hair smoothed and the tears washed from her eyes 
— “ plain ! She has the loveliest countenance that I ever 
looked at in my life !” 

“ Your sister is quite beautiful,” she said to Mark, as 
they talked her over alone before they went to sleep that 
night. 

. “ Yo, she’s not beautiful, but she’s a very good girl, and 

clever enough too, in her sort of way.” 

“ I think her perfectly lovely. I never saw such eyes in 
my life before.” 

“ I’ll leave her in your hands, then : you shall get her a 
husband.” 

“ That mayn’t be so easy. I don’t think she’d marry any 
body.” 

“Well, I hope not. But she seems to me to be exactly 
cut out for an old maid — to be aunt Lucy forever and ever 
to your bairns.” 

“ And so she shall, with all my heart. But I don’t think 
she will, very long. I have no doubt she will be hard to 
please, but if I were a man I should fall in love with her at 
once. Did you ever observe her teeth, Mark ?” 

“ I don’t think I ever did.” 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 117 

“ You Avonldn’t knoAV Avhether any one had a tooth in 
their head, I believe.” 

“No one, except you, my dear, and I knoAV all yours by 
heart.” 

“ You are a goose.” 

“And a A^ery sleepy one; so, if you please. I’ll go to 
roost.” And thus there Avas nothing more said about 
Lucy’s beauty on that occasion. 

For the first tAvo days Mrs. Robarts did not make much 
of her sister-in-laAv. Lucy, indeed, Avas not demonstrative ; 
and she Avas, moreover, one of those few persons — for they 
are very feAV — Avho are contented to go on Avith their ex- 
istence Avithout making themselves the centre of any spe- 
cial outAvard circle. To the ordinary run of minds it is 
impossible not to do this. A man’s OAvn dinner is to him- 
self so important that he can not bring himself to believe 
that it is a matter utterly indifferent to every one else. A 
lady’s collection of baby-clothes in early years, and of house- 
linen and curtain-fringes in later life, is so A^ery interesting 
to her oAvn eyes, that she can not believe but Avhat other 
people AAull rejoice to behold it. I Avould not, however, be 
held as regarding this tendency as evil. It leads to con- 
versation of some sort among people, and perha]^s to a kind 
of sympathy. Mrs. Jones Avill look at Mrs. White’s linen- 
chest, hoping that Mrs. White may be induced to look at 
hers. One can only pour qut of a jug that Avhich is in it. 
For the most of us, if Ave do not talk of ourselves, or, at 
any rate, of the individual circles of Avhich Ave are the cen- 
tres, Ave can talk of nothing. I can not hold Avith those 
Avho wish to put doAvn the insignificant cliatter of the Avorld. 
As for myself, I am ahvays happy to look at Mrs. J ones’s 
linen^ and never omit an opportunity of giving her the de- 
tails of my OAvn dinners. 

But Lucy Robarts had not not this gift. She had come 
there as a stranger into her sister-in-laAv’s house, and at first 
seemed as though she Avould be contented in simply having 
her corner in the drawing-room and her place at the parlor 
table. She did not seem to need the comforts of condo- 
lence and open-hearted talking. I do not mean to say that 
she Avas moody, that she did not ansAver when she Avas 
spoken to, or that she took no notice of the children ; but 
she did not at once throAV herself, and all her hopes and soiv 
rows, into Fanny’s heart, as Fanny Avould have had her do. 


118 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGB. 


Mrs. Robarts herself was what we call demonstrative. 
When she was angry with Lady Lnfton she showed it. 
And as, since that time, her love and admiration for Lady 
Lnfton had increased, she showed that also. When she 
was in any Avay displeased with her husband, she could not 
hide it, even though she tried to do so, and fancied herself 
successful— no more than she could hide her warm, con- 
stant, overflowing woman’s love. She could not walk 
through a room hanging on her husband’s arm without 
seeming to proclaim to every one there that she thought 
him the best man in it. She was demonstrative, and there- 
fore she was the more disappointed in that Lucy did not 
rush at once with all her cares into her open heart. 

“ She is so quiet,” Fanny said to her husband. 

“ That’s her nature,” said Mark. “ She always w^as quiet 
as a child. While we were smashing every thing, she 
would never crack a teacup.” 

“ I wish she would break something now,” said Fanny, 
“ and then perhaps we should get to talk about it.” But 
she did not, on this account, give over loving her sister-in- 
law. She probably valued her the more, unconsciously, for 
not liaving those aptitudes with which she herself was en- 
dowed. 

And then, after two days. Lady Lnfton called ; of course 
it may be supposed that Fanny had said a good deal to her 
new inmate about Lady Lufton. A neighbor of that kind 
in the country exercises so large an influence upon the 
whole tenor of one’s life, that to abstain from such talk is 
out of the question. Mrs. Robarts had been brought up 
almost under the dowager’s wing, and of course she re- 
garded her as being Avorthy of much talking. Do not let 
persons on this account suppose that Mrs. Robarts was a 
tuft-hunter or a toadeater. If they do not see the differ- 
ence, they have yet got to study the earliest principles of 
human nature. 

Lady Lufton called, and'Lucy Avas struck dumb. Fanny 
Avas particularly anxious that her ladyship’s first impression 
should be favorable, and, to effect this, she especially en- 
deavored to throw the tAvo together during that visit. But 
in this she was unwise. Lady Lufton, however, had wom- 
an-craft enough not to be led into any egregious error bv 
Lucy’s silence. 

“ And what day Avill you come and dine Avith us ?” said 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


119 


Lady Lufton, turning expressly to her old friend Fan- 
iiy- 

“Oh, do you name the day. We never have many en- 
gagements, you know.” 

“ Will Thursday do. Miss Roharts ? You will meet no- 
body you know, only my son ; so you need not regard it 
as going out. Fanny, here, will tell you that stepping 
over to Framley Court is no more going out than when 
you go from one room to another in the parsonage. Is it, 
Fanny ?” 

Fanny laughed and said that that stepping over to Fram* 
ley Court certainly was done so often that perhaps they 
did not think so much about it as they ought to do. 

“We consider ourselves a sort of happy family here. 
Miss Robarts, and are delighted to have the opportunity 
of including you in the menage.” 

Lucy gave her ladyship one of her sweetest smiles, but 
what she said at that moment was inaudible. It was plain, 
however, that she could not bring herself even to go as far 
as Framley Court for her dinner just at present. “ It was 
very kind of Lady Lufton,” she said to Fanny ; “ but it was 
so very soon, and — and — and if they would only go without 
her, she would be so happy.” But as the object was to go 
with her — expressly to take her there — the dinner was ad- 
journed for a short time — sine die. 


CHAPTER XI. 

GRISELDA GRANTLY. 

It was nearly a month after this that Lucy was first in- 
troduced to Lord Lufton, and then it was brought about 
only by accident. During that time Lady Lufton had been 
often at the parsonage, and had in a certain degree learned 
to know Lucy ; but the stranger in the parish had never 
yet plucked up courage to accept one of the numerous in- 
vitations that had reached her. Mr. Robarts and his wife 
had frequently been at Framley Court, but the dreaded day 
of Lucy’s initiation had not yet arrived. 

She had seen Lord Lufton in church, but hardly so as to 
know him, and beyond that she had not seen him at all. 
One day, however — or rather one evening, for it was al- 
ready dusk — he overtook her and Mrs. Robarts on the road 


120 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


walking toward the vicarage. He had his gun on his 
shoulder, three pointers were at his heels, and a gamekeeper 
followed a little in the rear. 

“ How are you, Mrs. Robarts ?” he said, almost before 
he had overtaken them. “ I have been chasing you along 
the road for the last half mile. I never 'knew ladies walk 
so fast.” 

“We should be frozen if we were to dawdle about as 
you gentlemen do,” and then she stopped and shook hands 
with him. She forgot at the moment that Lucy and he 
had not met, and therefore she did not introduce them. 

“Won’t you make me known to your sister-in-law?” 
said he, taking off his hat and bowing to Lucy. “ I have 
never yet had the pleasure of meeting her, though we have 
been neighbors for a month and more.” 

Fanny made her excuses and introduced them, and then 
they went on till they came to Framley Gate, Lord Lufton 
talking to them both, and Fanny answering for the two, 
and there they stopped for a moment. 

“ I am surprised to see you alone,” Mrs. Robarts had 
just said; “I thought that Captain Culpepper was with 
you.” 

“The captain has left me for this one day. If you’ll 
whisper I’ll tell you where he has gone. I dare not speak 
it out loud, even to the woods.” 

“ To what terrible place can he have taken himself? I’ll 
have no whisperings about such horrors.” 

“ He has gone to — to — but you’ll promise not to tell my 
mother ?” 

“Hot tell your mother! Well, now, you have excited 
my curiosity; where can he be?” 

“ Do you promise, then ?” 

“ Oh yes, I will promise, because I’m sure Lady Lufton 
won’t ask me as to Captain Culpepper’s whereabouts. W e 
won’t tell ; will we, Lucy ?” 

“ He has gone to Gatherum Castle for a day’s pheasant- 
shooting. H ow, mind, you must not betray us. Her lady- 
ship supposes that he is shut up in his room with a^tooth- 
ache. We did not dare to mention the name to her.” 

And then it appeared that Mrs. Robarts had some en- 
gagement which made it necessary that she should go up 
and see Lady Lufton, whereas Lucy was intending to walk 
on to the parsonage alone. 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


121 


“And I have promised to go to your husband,” said 
Lord Lufton, “ or rather to your husband’s dog, Ponto. 
And I will do two other good things : I will carry a brace 
of pheasants with me, and protect Miss Robarts from the 
evil spirits of the Framley roads.” And so Mrs. Robarts 
turned in at the gate, and Lucy and his lordship walked 
off together. 

Lord Lufton, though he had never before spoken to Miss 
Robarts, he had already found out that she was by no 
means plain. Though he had hardly seen her except at 
church, he had already made himself certain that the own- 
er of that face must be worth knowing, and was not sorry 
to have the present opportunity of speaking to her. “ So 
you have an unknown damsel shut up in your castle,” he 
had once said to Mrs. Robarts. “ If she be kept a prisoner 
much longer, I shall find it my duty to come and release 
her by force of arms.” He had been there twice with the 
object of seeing her, but on both occasions Lucy had man- 
aged to escape. Now we may say she was fairly caught, 
and Lord Lufton, taking a pair of pheasants from the game- 
keeper, and swinging them over his shoulder, walked off 
with his prey. 

“You have been here a long time,” he said, “without 
our having had the pleasure of seeing you.” 

“ Yes, my lord,” said Lucy. Lords had not been frequent 
among her acquaintance hitherto. 

“ I tell Mrs. Robarts that she has been confining you il- 
legally, and that we shall release you by force or stratagem.” 

“ I — I — I have had a great sorrow lately.” 

“Yes, Miss Robarts, I know you have; and I am only 
joking, you know. But I do hope that now you will be 
able to come among us. My mother is so anxious that you 
should do so.” 

“ I am sure she is very kind, and you also, my lord.” 

“ I never knew my own father,” said Lord Lufton, speak- 
ing gravely, “ but I can well understand what a loss you 
have had.” And then, after pausing a moment, he contin- 
ued, “ I remember Hr. Robarts well.” 

“Ho you, indeed?” said Lucy, turning sharj)ly toward 
him, and speaking now with some animation in her voice. 
Nobody had yet spoken to her about her father since she 
had been at Framley. It had been as though the subject 
were a forbidden one. And how frequently is this the case ! 

F 


122 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


When those we love are dead, our friends dread to mention 
them, though to us Avho are bereaved no subject would be 
so pleasant as their names. But we rarely understand how 
to treat our own sorrow or those of others. 

There was once a people in some land — and they may be 
still there, for what I know — who thought it sacrilegious to 
stay the course of a raging fire. If a house were being 
burned, burn it must, even though there were facilities for 
saving it ; for who would dare to interfere with the course 
of the god? Our idea of sorrow is much the same. We 
think it wicked, or, at any rate, heartless to j^ut it out. If 
a man’s wife be dead, he should go about lugubrious, with 
long face, for at least two years, or perhaps with full length 
for eighteen months, decreasing gradually during the other 
six. If he be a man who can quench his sorrow — put out 
his fire, as it were — in less time than that, let him, at any 
rate, not show his power ! 

“ Yes, I remember him,” continued Lord Lufton. “ He 
came twice to Fraraley while I was a boy, consulting with 
my mother about Mark and myself — Avhether the Eton flog- 
gings were not more efficacious than those at Harrow. He 
was very kind to me, foreboding all manner of good things 
on my behalf.” 

“ He was very kind to every one,” said Lucy. 

• “ I should think he would have been — a kind, good, genial 
man — just the man to be adored by his own family.” 

“ Exactly ; and so he was. I do not remember that I 
ever heard an unkind word from him. There Avas not a 
harsh tone in his voice. And he was generous as the day.” 
Lucy, Ave have said, Avas not generally demonstrative, but 
noAV, on this subject, and Avith this absolute stranger, she 
became almost eloquent. 

“ I do not Avonder that you should feel his loss. Miss 
Kobarts.” 

“ Oh, I do feel it. Mark is the best of brothers, and as 
for Fanny, she is too kind and too good to me. But I had 
ahvays been specially my father’s friend. For the last year 
or tAvo Ave had lived so much together !” 

“ He Avas an old man Avhen he died, Avas he not?” 

“Just scA^enty, my lord.” 

“ Ah ! then he Avas old. My mother is only fifty, and we 
sometimes call her the old Avoman. Ho you think slie looks 
older than that ? We all say that she makes herself out to 
be so much more ancient than she need do.” 


FliAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


123 


“ Lady Lufton does not dress young.” 

“ That is it. She never has, in my memory. She always 
used to wear black when I first recollect her. She has 
given that up now ; but she is still very sombre, is she not ?” 

“ I do not like ladies to dress very young — that is, ladies 
of_of— ” 

“ Ladies of fifty, we will say ?” 

“Very well; ladies of fifty, if you like it.” 

“ Then I am sure you will like my mother.” 

They had now turned up through the parsonage wicket, 
a little gate that opened into the garden at a point on the 
road nearer than the chief entrance. 

“ I suppose I shall find Mark at the house ?” said he. 

“ I dare say you will, my lord.” 

“Well, I’ll go round this way, for my business is partly 
in the stable. You see I am quite at home here, though 
you never have seen me before. But, Miss Robarts, now 
that the ice is broken, I liope that we may be friends.” 
He then put out his hand, and when she gave him hers he 
pressed it almost as an old friend might have done."^ 

And, indeed, Lucy had talked to him almost as though 
he were an old friend. For a minute or two she bad for- 
gotten that he was a lord and a stranger — had forgotten 
also to be stiff and guarded, as was her wont. Lord Lufton 
had spoken to her as though he had really cared to know 
her ; and she, unconsciously, had been taken by the com- 
pliment. Lord Lufton, indeed, had not thought much about 
it — excepting as thus, that he liked the glance of a pair of 
bright eyes as most other young men do like it; but on 
this occasion, the evening had been so dark that he had 
hardly seen Lucy’s eyes at all. 

“Well, Lucy, I hope you liked your companion,” Mrs. 
Robarts said, as the three of them clustered round the 
drawing-room fire before dinner. 

“ Oh yes, pretty well,’’ said Lucy. 

“ That is not at all complimentary to his lordship.” 

“ I did not mean to be complimentary, Fanny.” 

“ Lucy is a great deal too matter-of-fact for compliments,” 
said Mark. 

“ What I meant was, that I had no great opportunity for 
judging, seeing that I was only with Lord Lufton for about 
ten minutes.” 


See Frontispiece. 


124 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


. “ Ah ! but there are girls here who would give their eyes 
for ten minutes of Lord Lufton to themselves. You do not 
know how he’s valued. He has the character of being al- 
ways able to make himself agreeable to ladies at half a min- 
ute’s warning.” 

“ Perhaps he had not the half minute’s warning in this 
case,” said Lucy, hypocrite that she was. 

“ Poor Lucy,” said her brother ; “ he was coming up tc 
see Ponto’s shoulder, and I am afraid he was thinking more 
about the dog than you.” 

“ Very likely,” said Lucy ; and then they went in to din- 
ner. 

Lucy had been a hypocrite, for she had confessed to her- 
self, while dressing, that Lord Lufton had been very pleas- 
ant ; but then it is allowed to young ladies to be hypocrites 
when the subject under discussion is the character of a 
young gentleman. 

Soon after that, Lucy did dine at Framley Court. Cap- 
tain Culpepper, in spite of his enormity with reference to 
Gatherum Castle, was still staying there, as was also a 
clergyman from the neighborhood of Barchester, with his 
wife and daughter. This was Archdeacon Grantly, a gen- 
tleman whom we have mentioned before, and who was as 
well known in the diocese as the bishop himself, and more 
thought about by many clergymen than even that illustri- 
ous prelate. 

Miss Grantly was a young lady not much older than Lucy 
Robarts, and she also was quiet, and not given to much 
talking in open company. She was decidedly a beauty, 
but somewhat statuesque in her loveliness. Her forehead 
. IS high and white, but perhaps too like marble to gratify 

• : te of those who are fond of flesh and blood. Her 

- ’-irge and exquisitely formed, but they seldom ' 
i, ■ vr. r\ndi i^mtion. She, indeed, was impassive herself, 
ana b< ’ :• ' 1 ^>uL jit le of her feelings. Her nose was near- 
ly Grecia,. . ',>1 resolutely in a straight line from 

her forehead, but doii g rr n. nvly enough to entitle it to be 
considered as class!' .'i, 11 or it: oath, too, was very fine — 
artists, at least, said so, juid v /'>r:..HS‘^purs in beauty ; but to 
me she always seemed as the u : ; h ‘^'tu >r'\niocl fullness of lip. 
But the exquisite symmetry of];'-: cf-eok aiul ciiiu and low- 
er face no man could deny. Her hair w ur light, and, being 
always dressed with considerable care, did not from 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


125 


her appearance; but it lacked that richness which gives 
such luxuriance to feminine loveliness. She was tall and 
slight, and very graceful in her movements ; but there were 
those who thought she wanted the ease and abandon of 
youth. They said that she was too composed and stiff for 
her age, and that she gave but little to society beyond the 
beauty of her form and face. 

There can be no doubt, however, that she was consider- 
ed by most men and women to be the beauty of Barset- 
shire, and that gentlemen from neighboring counties would 
come many miles through dirty roads on the mere hope of 
being able to dance with her. Whatever attractions she 
may have lacked, she had, at any rate, created for herself a 
great reputation. She had spent two months of the last 
spring in London, and even there she had made a sensation ; 
and people had said that Lord Dumbello, Lady Hartletop’s 
eldest son, had been peculiarly struck with her. 

It may be imagined that the archdeacon was proud of 
her, and so indeed was Mrs. Grantly — more proud, perhaps, 
of her daughter’s beauty than so excellent a Avoman should 
have allowed herself to be of such an attribute. Griselda 
— that was her name — was now an only daughter. One 
sister she had had, but that sister had died. There were 
two brothers also left, one in the Church and the other in 
the army. That was the extent of the archdeacon’s family ; 
and as the archdeacon was a very rich man — he was the 
only child of his father, who had been Bishop of Barchester 
for a great many years, and in those years it had been worth 
a man’s while to be Bishop of Barchester — it was supposed 
that Miss Grantly would have a large fortune. Mrs. Grant- 
ly, however, had been heard to say that .she was in no hurry 
to see her daughter established in the Avorld— ordinary 
young ladies are merely married, but those of real import- 
ance are established — and this, if any thing, added to the 
value of the prize. Mothers sometimes depreciate their 
wares by an undue solicitude to dispose of them. 

But to tell the truth openly and at once— a virtue for 
Avhich a novelist does not receive very much commendation 
— Griselda Grantly was, to a certain extent, already given 
away. Not that she, Griselda, kneAV any thing about it, or 
that the thrice happy gentleman had been made aware of 
his good fortune ; nor even had the archdeacon been told. 
But Mrs. Grantly and Lady Lufton had been closeted to- 


126 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


gether more than once, and terms had been signed and seal- 
ed between them. Not signed on parchment, and sealed 
with wax, as is the case with treaties made by kings and 
diplomats, to be broken by the same, but signed with little 
words, and sealed with certain pressings of the hand — a 
treaty which between two such contracting parties would 
be binding enough. And by the terms of this treaty Gri- 
selda Grantly was to become Lady Lufton. 

Lady Lufton had hitherto been fortunate in her matri- 
monial speculations. She had selected Sir George for her 
daughter, and Sir George, with the utmost good-nature, had 
fallen in with her views. She had selected Fanny Monsell 
for Mr. Robarts, and Fanny Monsell had not rebelled against 
her. There was a prestige of success about her doings, and 
she felt almost confident that her dear son Ludovic must 
fall in love with Griselda. 

As to the lady herself, nothing. Lady Lufton thought, 
could be much better than such a match for her son. Lady 
Lufton, I have said, was a good Churchwoman, and the 
archdeacon was the very type of that branch of the Church 
which she venerated. The Grantlys, too, were of a good 
family — not noble indeed ; but in such matters Lady Luf- 
ton did not want every thing. She was one of those per- 
sons who, in placing their hopes at a moderate pitch, may 
fairly trust to see them realized. She would fain that her 
son’s wife should be handsome ; this she wished for his 
sake, that he might be proud of his wife, and because men 
love to look on beauty. But she was afraid of vivacious 
beauty — of those soft, sparkling feminine charms which are 
spread out as lures for all the world — soft dimples, laugh- 
ing eyes, luscious lips, conscious smiles, and easy whispers. 
What if her son should bring her home a rattling, rapid- 
spoken, painted piece of Eve’s flesh such as this? Would 
not the glory and joy of her life be over, even though such 
child of their first mother should have come forth to the 
present day ennobled by the blood of two dozen successive 
British peers ? 

And then, too, Griselda’s money "would not be useless. 
Lady Lufton, with all her high-flown ideas, was not an im- 
prudent woman. She knew that her son had been extrav- 
agant, though she did not believe that he had been reck- 
less ; and she was well content to think that some balsam 
from the old bishop’s coffers should be made to cure the 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


127 


slight wounds which his early imprudence might have in- 
flicted on the carcass of the family property. And thus, 
in this way, and for these reasons, Griselda Grantly had 
been chosen out from all the world to be the future Lady 
Lufton. 

Lord Lufton had met Griselda more than once already ; 
had met her before these high contracting parties had come 
to any terms whatsoever, and had evidently admired her. 
Lord Dumbello had remained silent one whole evening in 
London with ineffable disgust, because Lord Lufton had 
been rather particular in his attentions ; but then Lord 
Dumbello’s muteness was his most eloquent mode of ex- 
pression. Both Lady Hartletop and Mrs. Grantly, when 
they saw him, knew very well what he meant. But that 
match would not exactly have suited Mrs. Grantly’s views. 
The Hartletop people were not in her line. They belong- 
ed altogether to another set, being connected, as we have 
heard before, with the Omnium interest — “those horrid 
Gatherum people,” as Lady Lufton would say to her, rais- 
ing her hands and eyebrows, and shaking her head. Lady 
Lufton probably thought that they ate babies in pies dur- 
ing their midnight orgies at Gatherum Castle, and that wid- 
ows were kept in cells, and occasionally put on racks for 
the amusement of the duke’s guests. 

When the Robarts party entered the drawing-room the 
Grantlys were already there, and the archdeacon’s voice 
sounded loud and imposing in Lucy’s ears, as she heard 
him speaking while she was yet on the threshold of the 
door. 

“ My dear Lady Lufton, I would believe any thing on 
earth about her — any thing. There is nothing too^ outra- 
geous for her. Had she insisted on going there with the 
bishop’s apron on, I should not have been surprised.” And 
then they all knew that the archdeacon was talking about 
Mrs. Proudie, for Mrs. Proudie was his bugbear. 

Lady Lufton, after receiving her guests, introduced Lucy 
to Griselda Grantly. Miss Grantly smiled graciously, bow- 
ed slightly, and then remarked in the lowest voice possible 
that it was exceedingly cold. A low voice, Ave know, is an 
excellent thing in woman. 

Lucy, Avho thought that she was bound to speak, said 
that it Avas cold, but that she did not mind it Avhen she Avas 
Avalking. And then Griselda smiled again, someAvhat less 


128 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


graciously than before, and so the conversation ended. Miss 
Grantly was the elder of the two, and having seen most of 
the world, should have been the best able to talk, but per- 
haps she was not very anxious for a conversation with Miss 
Robarts. 

“ So, Robarts, I hear that you have been j)reaching at 
Chaldicotes,” said the archdeacon, still rather loudly. “ I 
saw Sowerby the other day, and he told me that you gave 
them the fag end of Mrs. Proudie’s lecture.” 

“ It was ill-natured of Sowerby to say the fag end,” said 
Robarts. “We divided the matter into thirds. Harold 
Smith took the first part, I the last — ” 

“ And the lady the intervening portion. You have elec- 
trified the county between you ; but I am told that she had 
the best of it.” 

“I was so sorry that Mr. Robarts went there,” said Lady 
Lufton, as she walked into the dining-room leaning on the 
archdeacon’s arm. 

“ I am inclined to think he could not very well have help- 
ed himself,” said the archdeacon, who was never willing to 
lean heavily on a brother parson, unless on one who had 
utterly and irrevocably gone away from his side of the 
Church. 

“ Do you think not, archdeacon ?” 

“ Why, no ; Sowerby is a friend of Lufton’s — ” 

‘‘Hot particularly,” said poor Lady Lufton, in a depre- 
cating tone. 

“ Well, they have been intimate ; and Robarts, when he 
was asked to preach at Chaldicotes, could not well refuse.” 

“ But then he went afterward to Gatherum Castle. Hot 
that I am vexed with him at all now, you understand. But 
it is such a dangerous house, you know.” 

“ So it is. But the very fact of the duke’s wishing to 
have a clergyman there should always be taken as a sign 
of grace. Lady Lufton. The air was impure, no doubt, but 
it was less impure with Robarts there than it would have 
been without him. But, gracious heavens ! what blasphemy 
have I been saying about impure air ? Why, the bishop 
was there !” 

“ Yes, the bishop was there,” said Lady Lufton, and they 
both understood each other thoroughly. 

Lord Lufton took out Mrs. Grantly to dinner, and mat- 
ters were so managed that Miss Grantly sat on his other 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


129 


side. There was no management apparent in this to any 
body ; but there she was, while Lucy was placed between 
her brother and Captain Culpepper. Captain Culpepper 
Avas a man with an enormous mustache, and a great apti- 
tude for slaughtering game ; but as he had no other char- 
acteristics, it Avas not probable that he Arould make him- 
self very agreeable to Lucy. 

She had seen Lord Lufton once, for tAVO minutes, since 
the day of that Avalk, and then he had addressed her quite 
like an old friend. It had been in the parsonage draAving- 
room, and Fanny had been there. Fanny now was so Avell 
accustomed to his lordship that she thought but little of 
this, but to Lucy it had been very pleasant. He Avas not 
forAvard or familiar, but kind, and gentle, and pleasant, and 
Lucy did feel that she liked him. 

Noav, on this evening, he had hitherto hardly spoken to 
her ; but then she knew that there were other people in 
the company to Avhom he Avas bound to speak. She was 
not exactly humble-minded in the usual sense of the Avord, 
but she did recognize the fact that her position Avas less 
important than that of other people there, and that there- 
fore it Avas probable to a certain extent that she Avoukl be 
overlooked. But not the less Avould she have liked to oc- 
cupy the seat to Avhich Miss Grantly had found her way. 
She did not Avant to flirt Avith Lord Lufton ; she Avas not 
such a fool as that ; but she would have liked to haA^e heard 
the sound of his A'oice close to her ear, instead of that of 
Captain Culpepper’s knife and fork. 

This was the flrst occasion on which she had endeavored 
to dress herself with care since her father had died ; and 
noAV, sombre though she was in her deep mourning, she 
did look very well. 

“ There is an expression about her forehead that is full 
of poetry,” Fanny had said to her husband. 

“Don’t you turn her head, Fanny, and make her belieA'e 
that she is a beauty,” Mark had ansAvered. . 

“ I doubt it is not so easy to turn her head, Mark. There 
is more in Lucy than you imagine, and so you Avill find out 
before long.” It was thus that Mrs. Robarts prophesied 
about her sister-in-law. Had she been asked, she might 
perhaps have said that Lucy’s presence Avould be danger- 
ous to the Grantly interest at Framley Court. 

Lord Lufton’s voice Avas audible enough as he Avent on 


130 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


talking to Miss Grantly — his voice, but not his words. He 
talked in such a way that there was no appearance of whis- 
pering, and yet the person to whom he spoke, and she only, 
could hear what he said. Mrs. Grantly the while con- 
versed constantly with Lucy’s brother, who sat at Lucy’s 
left hand. She never lacked for subjects on which to 
speak to a country clergyman of the right sort, and thus 
Griselda was left quite uninterrupted. 

But Lucy could not but observe that Griselda herself • 
seemed to have very little to say, or, at any rate, to say 
very little. Every now and then she did open her mouth, 
and some word or brace of words would fall from it ; but, 
for the most part, she seemed to be content in the fact that 
Lord Lufton was paying her attention. She showed no 
animation, but sat there still and graceful, composed and 
classical, as she always was. Lucy, who could not keep 
her ears from listening or her eyes from looking, thought 
that, had she been there, she would have endeavored to 
take a more prominent part in the conversation. But then 
Griselda Grantly probably knew much better than Lucy 
did how to comport herself in such a situation. Perhaps 
it m?ght be that young men, such as Lord Lufton, liked to 
hear the sound of their own voices. 

“Immense deal of game about here,” Captain Culpep- 
per said to her toward the end of the dinner. It was the 
second attempt he had made ; on the former he had asked 
her whether she knew any of the fellows of the 9th. 

“ Is there ?” said Lucy. “ Oh ! I saw Lord Lufton the 
other day with a great armful of pheasants.” 

“ An armful ! Why, we had seven cartloads the other 
day at Gatherum.” 

“ Seven carts full of pheasants !” said Lucy, amazed. 

“That’s not so much. We had eight guns, you know. 
Eight guns will do a deal of work when the game has been 
well got together. They manage all that capitally at 
Gatherum. Been at the duke’s, eh ?” 

Lucy had heard the Framley report as to Gatherum Cas- 
tle, and said with a sort of shudder that she had never been 
at that place. After this. Captain Culjiepj^er troubled her 
no farther. 

When the ladies had taken themselves to the drawing- 
room, Lucy found herself hardly better olF than she had 
been at the dinner-table. Lady Lufton and Mrs. Grantly 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


131 


got themselves on to a sofa together, and there chatted 
confidentially into each other’s ears. Her ladyship had in- 
troduced Lucy and Miss Grantly, and then she naturally 
thought that the young people might do very well togeth- 
er. Mrs. Robarts did attempt to bring about a joint con- 
versation, Avhich should include the three, and for ten min- 
utes or so she worked hard at it. But it did not thrive. 
Miss Grantly was monosyllabic, smiling, however, at every 
monosyllable ; and Lucy found that nothing would occur 
to her at that moment worthy of being sj)oken. There 
she sat, still and motionless, afraid to take up a book, and 
thinking in her heart how much happier she would have 
been at home at the parsonage. She was not made for so- 
ciety, she felt sure of that; and another time she would 
let Mark and Fanny come to Framley Court by them- 
selves. 

And then the gentlemen came in, and there was another 
stir in the room. Lady Lufton got up and bustled about ; 
she poked the fire and shifted the candles, spoke a few 
words to Dr. Grantly, whispered something to her son, 
patted Lucy on the cheek, told Fanny, who was a musi- 
cian, that they would have a little music, and ended by put- 
ting her two hands on Griselda’s shoulders, and telling her 
that the fit of her frock was perfect; for Lady Lufton, 
though she did dress old herself, as Lucy had said, delight- 
ed to see those around her neat and pretty, jaunty and 
graceful. 

“ Dear Lady Lufton !” said Griselda, putting u]) her hand 
so as to press the end of her ladyship’s fingers. It was the 
first piece of animation she had shown, and Lucy Robarts 
watched it all. 

And then there was music. Lucy neither played nor 
sang ; Fanny did both, and for an amateur did both well. 
Griselda did not sing, but she played, and did so in a man- 
ner that showed that neither her own labor nor her father’s 
money had been spared in her instruction. Lord Lufton 
sang also a little, so that they got up a concert among them. 
In the mean time, the doctor and Mark stood talking to- 
gether on the rug before the fire ; the two mothers sat con- 
tented, watching the billings and the cooings of their off- 
spring — and Lucy sat alone, turning over the leaves of a 
book of pictures. She made up her mind fully, then and 
there, that she was quite unfitted by disposition for such 


132 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


work as this. She cared for no one, and no one cared for 
her. Well, she must go through with it now ; but another 
time she would know better. With her own book and a 
fireside she never felt herself to be miserable as she was 
now. 

She had turned her back to the music, for she was sick 
of seeing Lord Lufton watch the artistic motion of Miss 
Grantly’s fingers, and was sitting at a small table as far 
away from the piano as a long room would permit, when 
she was suddenly roused from a reverie of self-reproach by 
a voice close behind her : “ Miss Robarts,” said the voice, 
“ why have you cut us all and Lucy felt that though she 
heard the words plainly, nobody else did. Lord Lufton 
was now speaking to her as he had before spoken to Miss 
Grantly. 

“ I don’t play, my lord,” said Lucy, “ nor yet sing.” 

“That would have made your company so much more 
valuable to us, for we are terribly badly off for listeners. 
Perhaps you don’t like music ?” 

“ I do like it — sometimes very much.” 

“And when are the sometimes? But we shall find it 
all out in time. We shall have unraveled all your mys- 
teries and read all your riddles by — when shall I say ? — 
by the end of the winter. Shall we not ?” 

“ I do not know that I have got any mysteries.” 

“Oh, but you have! It is very mysterious in you to 
come and sit here, with your back to us all — ” 

“ Oh, Lord Lufton, if I have done wrong — ” and poor 
Lucy almost started from her chair, and a deep flush came 
across her dark cheek. 

“ No, no, you have done no wrong. I was only joking. 
It is we who have done wrong in leaving you to yourself 
— ^you, who are the greatest stranger among us.” 

“ I have been very well, thank you. I don’t care about 
being left alone. I have always been used to it.” 

“Ah ! but we must break you of the habit. We won’t 
allow you to make a hermit of yourself. But the truth is. 
Miss Kobarts, you don’t know us yet, and therefore you 
are not quite happy among us.” 

“ Oh ! yes, I am ; you are all very good to me.” 

“ You must let us be good to you. At any rate, you 
must let me be so. You know, don’t you, that Mark and 
I have been dear friends since we were seven years old ? 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


133 


His wife has been my sister’s dearest friend almost as long ; 
and, now that you are with them, you must he a dear friend 
too. You won’t refuse the offer, will you?” 

‘‘ Oh no,” she said, quite in a whisper ; and, indeed, she 
could hardly raise her voice above a whisper, fearing that 
tears would fall from her telltale eyes. 

“ Dr. and Mrs. Grantly will have gone in a couple of days, 
and then we must get you down here. Miss Grantly is to 
remain for Christmas, and you two must become bosom 
friends.” 

Lucy smiled, and tried to look pleased, but she felt that 
she and Griselda Grantly could never be bosom friends — 
could never have any thing in common between them. She 
felt sure that Griselda despised her, little, brown, plain, and 
unimportant as she was. She herself could not despise 
Griselda in turn ; indeed, she could not but admire Miss 
Grantly’s great beauty and dignity of demeanor, but she 
knew that she could never love her. It is hardly possible 
that the proud-hearted should love those who despise them, 
and Lucy Robarts was very proud-hearted. 

“ Don’t you think she is very handsome ?” said Lord 
Lufton. 

“ Oh, very,” said Lucy. “ N'obody can doubt that.” 

“Ludovic,” said Lady Lufton, not quite approving of 
her son’s remaining so long at the back of Lucy’s chair, 
“ won’t you give us another song ? Mrs. Robarts and Miss 
Grantly are still at the piano.” 

“ I have sung away all that I knew, mother. There’s 
Culpepper has not had a chance yet. He has got to give 
us his dream — how he ‘ dreamed that he dwelt in marble 
halls!”’ 

‘‘I sang that an hour ago,” said the captain, not over 
pleased. 

“ But you certainly have not told us how ‘ your little 
lovers came !’ ” 

The captain, however, would not sing anymore. And 
then the party was broken up, and the Robarts’s went home 
to their parsonage. 


134 


FllAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE LITTLE BILL. 

Lucy, during those last fifteen minutes of her sojourn in 
the Framley Court drawing-room, somewhat modified the 
very strong opinion she had before formed as to her unfit- 
ness for such society. It was very pleasant sitting there in 
that easy chair, while Lord Lufton stood at the back of it, 
saying nice, soft, good-natured words to her. She was sure 
that in a little time she could feel a true friendship for him, 
and that she could do so without any risk of falling in love 
with him. But then she had a glimmering of an idea that 
such a friendship would be open to all manner of remarks, 
and would hardly be compatible wdth the world’s ordinary 
ways. At any rate, it would be pleasant to be at Framley 
Court if he would come and occasionally notice her ; but 
she did not admit to herself that such a visit would be in- 
tolerable if his whole time were devoted to Griselda Grant- 
ly. She neither admitted it nor thought it ; but, never- 
theless, in a strange unconscious way, such a feeling did 
find entrance in her bosom. 

And then the Christmas holidays passed away. How 
much of this enjoyment fell to her share, and how much of 
this suffering she endured, we will not attempt accurately 
to describe. Miss Grantly remained at Framley Court up 
to Twelfth Night, and the Robarts’s also spent most of the 
season at the house. Lady Lufton, no doubt, had hoped 
that every thing might have been arranged on this occa- 
sion in accordance with her wishes, but such had not been 
the case. Lord Lufton had evidently admired Miss Grant- 
ly very much ; indeed, he had said so to his mother half a 
dozen times ; but it may almost be questioned whether the 
pleasure Lady Lufton derived from this was .not more than 
neutralized by an opinion he once put forward that Gri- 
selda Grantly wanted some of the fire of Lucy Robarts. 

“ Surely, Ludovic, you would never compare the two 
girls,” said LadyXufton. 

‘‘Of course not. They are the very antipodes to each 
other. Miss Grantly would probably be more to my taste ; 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


135 


but then I am wise enough to know that it is so because 
my taste is a bad taste.” 

“I know no man with a more accurate or refined taste 
in such matters,” said Lady Lufton. Beyond this she did 
not dare to go. She knew very well that her strategy 
would be vain should her son once learn that she had a 
strategy. To tell the truth, Lady Lufton Avas becoming 
somewhat indifterent to Lucy Robarts. She had been very 
kind to the little girl, but the little girl seemed hardly to 
appreciate the kindness as she should do ; and then Lord 
Lufton would talk to Lucy, “ which Avas so unnecessary, 
you know ;” and Lucy had got into a Avay of talking quite 
freely Avith Lord Lufton, having completely dropped that 
short, spasmodic, ugly exclamation of “ my lord.” 

And so the Christmas festivities Avere at an end, and 
January wore itself aAvay. During the greater part of this 
month Lord Lufton did not remain at Framley, but was 
nevertheless in the county, hunting with the hounds of 
both divisions, and staying at various houses. Two or 
three nights he spent at Chaldicotes, and one — let it only 
be told in an under voice — at Gatherum Castle ! Of this 
he said nothing to Lady Lufton. “Why make her un- 
happy ?” as he said to Mark. But Lady Lufton kneAV it, 
though she said not a word to him — knew it, and Avas un- 
liappy. “ If he Avould only marry Griselda, there would 
be an end of that danger,” she said to herself. 

But now we must go back for a Avhile to the vicar and 
his little bill. It will be remembered that his first idea 
Avith reference to that trouble, after the reading of his 
father’s Avill, Avas to borroAV the money from his brother 
John. John was down at Exeter at the time, and was to 
stay one night at the parsonage on his Avay to London. 
Mark would broach the matter to him on the journey, pain- 
ful though it Avould be to him to tell the story of his own 
folly to a brother so much younger than himself, and who 
had always looked up- to him, clergyman and full-bloAvn 
vicar as he was, Avith a deference greater than that which 
such difference in age required. 

The story Avas told, hoAvever, but was told all in vain, as 
Mark found out before he reached Framley. His brother 
John immediately declared that he would lend him the 
money, of course — eight hundred if his brother Avanted it. 
He, John, confessed that, as regarded the remaining two, 


136 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE, 


he should like to feel the pleasure of immediate possession. 
As for interest, he would not take any — take interest from 
a brother! of course not. Well, if Mark made such a fuss 
about it, he supposed he must take it, but would rather 
not. Mark should have his own way, and do just what he 
liked. 

This was all very well, and Mark had fully made up his 
mind that his brother should not be kept long out of his 
money. But then arose the question. How was that money 
to be reached ? He, Mark, was executor, or one of the ex- 
ecutors under his father’s will, and therefore, no doubt, 
could put his hand upon it ; but his brother wanted five 
months of being of age, and could not therefore as yet be 
put legally in possession of the legacy. 

“ That’s a bore,” said the assistant private secretary to the 
Lord Petty Bag, thinking, perhaps, as much of his own im- 
mediate wish for ready cash as he did of his brother’s ne- 
cessities. Mark felt that it was a bore, but there was noth- 
ing more to be done in that direction. He must now find 
out how far the bankers could assist him. 

Some week or two after his return to Framley he went 
over to Barchester, and called there on a certain Mr. For- 
rest, the manager of one of the banks, with whom he was 
acquainted ; and with many injunctions as to secrecy, told 
this manager the whole of his story. At first he concealed 
the name of his friend Sowerby, but it soon appeared that 
no such concealment was of any avail. “ That’s Sowerby, 
of course,” said Mr. Forrest. “ I know you are intimate 
with him, and all his friends go through that, sooner or 
later.” 

It seemed to Mark as though Mr. Forrest made very light 
of the whole transaction. 

“ I can not possibly pay the bill when it falls due,” said 
Mark. 

“ Oh no, of course not,” said Mr. Forrest. “ It’s never 
very convenient to hand out four hundred pounds at a blow. 
Nobody will expect you to pay it.” 

“ But I suppose I shall have to do it sooner or later ?” 

“ Well, that’s as may be. It will depend partly on how 
you manage with Sowerby, and partly on the hands it gets 
into. As the bill has your name on it, they’ll have patience 
as long as the interest is paid, and the commissions on re- 
newal. But no doubt it will have to be met some day by 
somebody.” 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


137 


Mr. Forrest said that he was sure that the hill was not 
in Barchester ; Mr. Sowerby Avould not, he thought, have 
brought it to a Barchester bank. The bill was probably 
in London, but, doubtless, would bo sent to Barchester for 
collection. “If it comes in my way,” said Mr. Forrest, 
“ I -will give you plenty of time, so that you may manage 
about the renewal with Sowerby. I suppose he’ll pay the 
expense of doing that.” 

Mark’s heaj't was somewhat lighter as he left the bank. 
Mr. Forrest had made so little of the whole transaction 
that he felt himself justified in making little of it also. 
“ It may be as well,” said he to himself, as he drove home, 
“ not to tell Fanny any thing about it till the three months 
have run round. I must make some arrangement then.” 
And in this way his mind was easier during the last of 
those three months than it had been during the two former. 
That feeling of over-due bills, of bills coming due, of ac- 
counts overdrawn, of tradesmen unpaid, of general money 
cares, is very dreadful at first, but it is astonishing how 
soon men get used to it. A load.which would crush a man 
at first becomes, by habit, not only endurable, but easy and 
comfortable to the bearer. The habitual debtor goes along 
jaunty and with elastic step, almost enjoying the excite- 
ment of his embarrassments. There was Mr. Sowerby 
himself — who ever saw a cloud on his brow ? It made one 
almo; t in love with ruin to be in his company. And even 
now, already, Mark Bobarts Avas thinking to himself quite 
comfortably about this bill — hoAV very pleasantly those 
bankers managed these things. Pay it ! No ; no one Avill 
be so unreasonable as to expect you to do that. And then 
Mr. SoAverby certainly was a pleasant fellow, and gave a 
man something in return for his money. It Avas still a 
question Avith Mark whether Lord Lufton had not been too 
hard on SoAverby. Had that gentleman fallen across his 
clerical friend at the present moment, he might, no doubt, 
have gotten from him an acceptance for another four hund- 
red pounds. 

One is almost inclined to believe that there is something 
pleasurable in the excitement of such embarrassments, as 
tliere is also in the excitement of drink. But then, at last, 
the time does come when the excitement is over, and Avhen 
nothing but the misery is left. If there be an existence of 
Avretchedness on earth, it must be that of the elderly, Avorn- 


138 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


out roue^ who has run this race of debt and bills of accom- 
niodation and acceptances — of what, if we were not in these 
days somewhat afraid of good broad English, we might 
call lying and swindling, falsehood and fraud— and who, 
having ruined all whom he should have loved, having burnt 
up every one who would trust him much, and scorched all 
who would trust him a little, is at last left to finish his life 
with such bread and water as these men get, without one 
honest thought to strengthen his sinking heart, or one 
honest friend to hold his shivering hand ! If a man could 
only think of that, as he puts his name to the first little bill, 
as to which he is so good-naturedly assured that it can 
easily be renewed ! 

When the three months had nearly run out, it so hap- 
pened that Robarts met his friend Sowerby. Mark had 
once or twice ridden with Lord Lufton as far as the meet 
of the hounds, and may, perhaps, have gone a field or two 
farther on some occasions. The reader must not think that 
he had taken to hunting, as some parsons do ; and it is sin- 
gular enough that whenever they do so they always show 
a special aptitude for the pursuit, as though hunting were 
an employment peculiarly congenial with a cure of souls in 
the country. Such a thought would do our vicar injustice. 
But when Lord Lufton would ask him what on earth could 
be the harm of riding along the roads to look at the 
hounds, he hardly knew what sensible answer to give his 
lordship. It would be absurd to say that his time would 
be better employed at home in clerical matters, for it was 
notorious that he had not clerical pursuits for the employ- 
ment of half his time. In this way, therefore, he had got 
into a habit of looking at the hounds, and keeping up his 
acquaintance in the county, meeting Lord Dumbello, Mr. 
Green Walker, Harold Smith, and other such like sinners; 
and on one such occasion, as the three months were nearly 
closing, he did meet Mr. Sowerby. 

“ Look here, Sowerby, I want to speak to you for half a 
moment. What are you doing about that bill ?” 

“ Bill ! bill ! what bill ? which bill ? The whole bill, and 
nothing but the bill. That seems to be the conversation 
nowadays of all men, morning, noon, and night.” 

“Don’t you know the bill I signed for you for four 
hundred pounds ?” 

“ Did you, though ? Was not that rather green of you ?” 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


139 


This did seem strange to Mark. Could it really be the 
fact that Mr. Sowerby had so many bills flying about that 
he had absolutely forgotten that occurrence in the Gatherum 
Castle bedroom. And then to be called green by the very 
man whom he had obliged ! 

“ Perhaps I was,” said Mark, in a tone that showed that 
he w^as somewhat jflqued. “ But all the same, I should be 
glad to know how it will be taken ujd.” 

“ Oh, Mark, what a rufiian you are to spoil my day’s 
sport in this way. Any man but a parson would be too 
good a Christian for such intense cruelty. But let me see 
— four hundred pounds ? Oh yes — Tozer has it.” 

“And w'hat will Tozer do with it ?” 

“ Make money of it ; whatever way he may go to work, 
he will do that.” 

“ But will Tozer bring it to me on the 20th ?” 

“ Oh Lord, no ! Uj)on my word, Mark, you are deli- 
ciously green. A cat would as soon think of killing a 
mouse directly she got it into her claws. But, joking 
apart, you need not trouble yourself Maybe you will hear 
no more about it ; or, perhaps, which no doubt is more 
probable, I may have to send it to you to be renewed. But 
you need do nothing till you hear from me or somebody 
else.” 

“ Only do not let any one come down upon me for the 
money.” 

“ There is not the slightest fear of that. Tally-ho, old 
•fellow ! He’s away. Tally-ho ! right over by Gossetts’ 
barn. Come along, and never mind Tozer — ‘ Sufficient for 
the day is the evil thereof’ ” And away they both went 
together, parson and member of Parliament. 

And then again on that occasion Mark went home with 
a sort of feeling that the bill did not matter. Tozer would 
manage it somehow ; and it was quite clear that it would 
not do to tell his wife of it just at present. 

On the 21st of that month of February, however, he did 
receive a reminder that the bill and all concerning it had 
not merely been a farce. This was a letter from Mr. Sow- 
erby, dated from Chaldicotes, though not bearing the Bar- 
chester post-mark, in which that gentleman suggested a re- 
ne-^yal — not exactly of the old bill, but of a new one. It 
seemed to Mark that the letter had been posted in London. 
If I give it entire, I shall, perhaps, most quickly explain its 
puiq^ort : 


140 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“ Chaldicotes, 20th February, 185-. 

“My dear Mark, — ‘Lend not thy name to the money-dealers, for 
the same is a destruction and a snare.’ If that be not in the Proverbs, 
it ought to be. Tozer has given me certain signs of his being alive and 
strong this cold weather. As we can neither of us take up that bill for 
£400 at this moment, we must renew it, and pay him his commission and 
interest, with all the rest of his perquisites, and pickings, and stealings — 
from all wdiich, I can assure you, Tozer does not keep his hands as he 
should do. 

“To cover this and some other little outstanding trifles, I have filled 
in the new bill for £500, making it due 23d of May next. Before that 
time, a certain accident will, I trust, have occurred to your impoA’-erished 
friend. By-the-by, I never told you how she went off from Gatherum 
Castle, the morning after you left us, with the Greshams. Cart-ropes 
Avould not hold her, even though the duke held them, which he did Avith 
all the strength of his ducal hands. She Avould go to meet some doctor 
of theirs, and so I was put off for that time ; but I think that the matter 
stands in a good train. 

“Do not lose a post in sending back the bill accepted, as Tozer may 
annoy you — nay, undoubtedly will, if the matter be not in his hand, duly 
signed by both of us, the day after to-morrow. He is an ungrateful 
brute ; he has lived on me for these eight years, and Avould not let me 
off a single squeeze now to save my life. But I am specially anxious to 
saA’e you from the annoyance and cost of laAvyers’ letters ; and if delay- 
ed, it might get into the papers. 

“ Put it under cover to me, at No. 7 Duke Street, St. James’s. I shall 
be in toAvn by that time. 

“Good-by, old felloAv. That Avas a decent brush we had the other 
day from Cobbold’s Ashes. I Avdsh I could get that broAvn horse from 
you. I Avould not mind going to a hundred and thirty. 

“Yours ever, N. Soaverby.” 

When'ivlsrlc had read it through, ho looked down on his 
table to see wheihcr Jhe old bill had fallen from the letter ; 
but no, there was no mcl'^sure, and had been no inclosure 
but the new bill. And then Ire the letter througli 
again, and found that there was no word about the old 
bill — not a syllable, at least, as to its whereabouts. Sow- 
erby did not even say that it would remain in his own 
hands. 

Mark did not, in truth, know much about such things. 
It might be that the very fact of his signing this second 
document would render that first document null and void ; 
and from Sowerby’s silence on the subject, it might be ar- 
gued that this was so well known to be the case that he 
had not thought of (explaining it. But yet Mark could not 
see how this should be so. 

But what was he to do ? That threat of cost and law- 
yers, and specially of the newspapers, did have its efiect 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


141 


upon him — as no doubt it was intended to do. And then 
he was utterly dumbfounded by Sowerby’s impudence in 
drawing on him for £500 instead of £400, “ covering,” as 
Sowerby so good-humoredly said, “ sundry little outstand- 
ing trifles.” 

But at last he did sign the bill, and sent it ofi*, as Sower- 
by had directed. What else was he to do ? 

Fool that he was. A man always can do right, even 
though he has done wrong before. But that previous 
wrong adds so much difficulty to the path — a difficulty 
which increases in tremendous ratio till a man at last is 
choked in his struggling, and is drowned beneath the wa- 
ters. • 

And then he put away Sowerby’s letter carefully, lock- 
ing it up from his wife’s sight. It was a letter that no par- 
ish clergyman should have received. So much he acknowl- 
edged to himself. But, nevertheless, it was necessary that 
he should keep it. And now again, for a few hours, this 
afiair made him very miserable. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

DELICATE HINTS. 

Lady Lupton had been greatly rejoiced at that good 
deed which her son did in giving up his Leicestershire 
hunting, and coming to reside for the winter at Framley. 
It was proper, and becoming, and comfortable in the ex- 
treme. An English nobleman ought to hunt in the county 
where he himself owns the fields over which he rides ; he 
ought to receive the respect and honor due to him from his 
own tenants ; he ought to sleep under a roof of his own, 
and he ought also — so Lady Lufton thought — to fall in love 
with a young embryo bride of his own mother’s choosing. 

And then it was so pleasant to have him there in the 
house. Lady Lufton was not a woman who allowed her 
life to be what people in common parlance call dull. She 
had too many duties, and thought too much of them, to al- 
low of her sufiering from tedium and ennui. But, never- 
theless, the house was more joyous to her when he was 
there. There was a reason for some little gayety, which 
would never have been attracted thither by herself, but 
which, nevertheless, she did enjoy when it was brought 


142 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


about by bis presence. She was younger and brighter 
when he was there, thinking more of the future and less of 
the past. She could look at him, and that alone was hap- 
piness to her. And then he was pleasant-mannered with 
her; joking with her on her little old-world prejudices in a 
tone that was musical to her ear as coming from him ; smil- 
ing on her, reminding her of those smiles which she had 
loved so dearly when as yet he was all her own, lying there 
in his little bed beside her chair. He was kind and gracious 
to her, behaving like a good son, at any rate while he was 
there in her presence. When we add to this her fears that 
he might not be so perfect in his conduct when absent, we 
may well imagine that Lady Lufton was pleased to have 
him there at Framley Court. 

She had hardly said a word to him as to that five thou- 
sand pounds. Many a night, as she lay thinking on her pil- 
low, she said to herself that no money had ever been better 
expended, since it had brought him back to his own house. 
He had thanked her for it in his own open way, declaring 
that he would pay it back to her during the coming year, 
and comforting her heart by his rejoicing that the property 
had not been sold. 

“ I don’t like the idea of parting with an acre of it,” he 
had said. 

“ Of course not, Ludovic. N ever let the estate decrease 
in your hands. It is only by such resolutions as that that 
English noblemen and English gentlemen can preserve their 
country. I can not bear to see property changing hands.” 

“Well, I suppose it’s a good thing to have land in the 
market sometimes, so that the millionaires may know what 
to do with their money.” 

“ God forbid that yours should be there !” And the wdd- 
ow made a little mental prayer that her son’s acres might 
be protected from the millionaires and other Philistines. 

“Why, yes, I don’t exactly want to see a Jew tailor in- 
vesting his earnings at Lufton,” said the lord. 

“ Heaven forbid !” said the widow. 

'All this, as I have said, was very nice. It was manifest 
to her ladyship, from his lordship’s way of talking, that no 
vital injury had as yet been done. He had no cares on his 
mind, and spoke freely about the property ; but, neverthe- 
less, there were clouds even now, at this period of bliss, 
which somewhat obscured the brilliancy of Lady Lufton’s 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


143 


sky. Why was Ludovic so slow in that affair of Giiselda 
Grantly ? why so often, in these latter winter days, did he 
saunter over to the Parsonage ? ^ And then that terrible 
visit to Gatherum Castle ! 

What actually did happen at.Gatherum Castle she never 
knew. We, however, are more intrusive, less delicate in 
our inquiries, and we can say. He had a very bad day’s 
sport with the W est Barsetshire. The county is altogeth- 
er short of foxes, and some one who understands the mat- 
ter must take that point up before they can do any good. 
And after that he had had rather a dull dinner with the 
duke. Sowerby had been there, and in the evening he and 
Sowerby had played billiards. Sowerby had won a pound 
or two, and that had been the extent of the damage done. 

But those saunterings over to the Parsonage might be 
more dangerous — not that it ever occurred toLadyLufton 
as possible that her son should fall in love with Lucy Bob- 
arts. Lucy’s personal attractions were not of a nature to 
give ground for such a fear as that. But he might turn 
the girl’s head with his chatter ; she might be fool enough 
to fancy any folly ; and, moreover, people would talk. Why 
should he go to the Parsonage now more frequently than 
he had ever done before Lucy came there ? 

And then her ladyship, in reference to the same trouble, 
hardly knew how to manage her invitations to the Parson- 
age. These hitherto had been very frequent, and she had 
been in the habit of thinking that they could hardly be too 
much so ; but now she was almost afraid to continue the 
custom. She could not ask the parson and his wife with- 
out Lucy ; and when Lucy was there, her son would pass 
the greater part of the evening in talking to her, or play- 
ing chess with her. Now this did disturb Lady Lufton 
not a little. 

And then Lucy took it all so quietly. On her first ar- 
rival at Framley she had been so shy, so silent, and so 
much awe-struck by the grandeur of Framley Court, that 
Lady Lufton had sympathized with her and encouraged 
her. She had endeavored to moderate the blaze of her own 
splendor, in order that Lucy’s unaccustomed eyes might 
not be dazzled. But all this was changed now. Lucy 
could listen to the young lord’s voice by the hour together 
without being dazzled in the least. 

Under these circumstances two things occurred to her. 


144 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


She would speak either to her son or to Fanny Robarts, 
and by a little diplomacy have this evil remedied. And 
then she had to determine on which step she would take. 

“ Nothing could be more reasonable than Ludovic;” so 
at least she said to herself over and over again. But then 
Ludovic understood nothing about such matters ; and he 
had, moreover, a habit, inherited from his father, of taking 
the bit between his own teeth whenever he expected inter- 
ference. Drive him gently without pulling his mouth about, 
and you might take him any where, almost at any pace ; 
but a smart touch, let it be ever so slight, would bring him 
on his haunches, and then it might be a question whether 
you could get him another mile that day ; so that, on the 
Avhole, Lady Lufton thought that the other plan would be 
the best. I have no doubt that Lady Lufton was right. 

She got Fanny up into her own den one afternoon, and 
seated her discreetly in an easy arm-chair, making her guest 
take off her bonnet, and showing by various signs that the 
visit was regarded as one of great moment. 

“Fanny,” she said, “ I want to speak to you about some- 
thing that is important and necessary to mention, and yet 
it is a very delicate affair to speak of.” Fanny opened her 
eyes, and said that she hoped that nothing was wrong. 

“ No, my dear, I think nothing is wrong ; I hope so, and 
I think I may say I’m sure of it ; but then it’s always well 
to be on one’s guard.” 

“ Yes, it is,” said Fanny, who knew that something un- 
pleasant was coming — something as to which she might 
probably be called upon to differ from her ladyship. Mrs. 
Robarts’ own fears, however, were running entirely in the 
direction of her husband ; and, indeed. Lady Lufton had a 
word or two to say on that subject also, only not exactly 
now. A hunting parson was not at all to her taste ; but 
that matter might be allowed to remain in abeyance for a 
few days. 

“ Now, Fanny, you know that we have all liked your sis- 
ter-in-law, Lucy, very much.” And then Mrs. Robarts’ 
mind was immediately opened, and she knew the rest as 
well as though it had all been spoken. “ I need hardly tell 
you that, for I am sure we have shown it.” 

“ You have, indeed, as you always do.” 

“ And you must not think that I am going to complain,” 
continued Lady Lufton. 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


145 


^ I hope there is nothing to complain of,” said Fanny, 
speaking by no means in a defiant tone, but humbly as it 
were, and deprecating her ladyship’s wrath. Fanny had 
gained one signal victory over Lady Lufton, and on that 
account, with a prudence equal to her generosity, felt that 
she could afibrd to be submissive. It might, perhaps, not 
be long before she would be equally anxious to conquer 
again. 

“Well, no, I don’t think there is,” said Lady Lufton; 
“ nothing to complain of ; but a little chat between you and 
me may, perhaps, set matters right, which, otherwise, might 
become troublesome.” 

“ Is it about Lucy ?” 

^ “ Yes, my dear, about Lucy. She is a very nice, good 
girl, and a credit to her father — ” 

“ And a great comfort to us,” said Fanny. 

“ I am sure she is : she must be n. very pleasant compan- 
ion to you, and so useful about the children ; but — ” And 
then Lady Lufton paused for a moment ; for she, eloquent 
and discreet as she always was, felt herself rather at a loss 
for words to express her exact meaning. 

“ I don’t know what I should do without her,” said Fan- 
ny, speaking with the object of assisting her ladyshi]3 in her 
embarrassment. 

“ But the truth is this : she and Lord Lufton are getting 
into the way of being too much together — of talking to 
each other too exclusively. I am sure you must have no- 
ticed it, Fanny. It is not that I suspect any evil. I don’t 
think that I am suspicious by nature.” 

“ Oh no,” said Fanny. 

“ But they will each of them get wrong ideas about the 
other and about themselves. Lucy will, perhaps, think 
that Ludovic means more than he does, and Ludovic will — ” 
But it was not quite so easy to say what Ludovic might 
do or think ; but Lady Lufton went on : 

“ I am sure that you understand me, Fanny, with your 
excellent sense and tact. Lucy is clever, and amusing, and 
all that ; and Ludovic, like all young men, is perhaps igno- 
rant that his attentions may be taken to mean more than 
he intends — ” 

“ You don’t think that Lucy is in love with him ?” 

“ Oh i^dear, no — nothing of the kind. If I thought it 
had come to that, I should recommend that she should be 

G 


146 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


• sent away altogether. I am sure she is not so foolish as 
that.” 

“ I don’t think there is any thing in it at all, Lady Luf- 
ton.” 

“ I don’t think there is, my dear, and therefore I would 
not for worlds make any suggestion about it to Lord Luf- 
ton. I would not let him suppose that I suspected Lucy 
of being so imprudent. But still, it may be well that you 
should just say a word to her. A little management now 
and then, in such matters, is so useful.” 

“ But what shall I say to her ?” 

“Just explain to her that any young lady who talks so 
much to the same young gentleman will certainly be ob- 
served — that people will accuse her of setting her cap at 
Lord Lufton. Not that I suspect her; I give her credit 
for too much proper feeling; I know her education has 
been good, and her principles upright. But people will 
talk other. You must understand that, Fanny, as well as 
I do.” 

Fanny could not help meditating whether proper feeling, 
education, and upright principles did forbid Lucy liobarts 
to fall in love with Lord Lufton ; but her doubts on this 
subject, if she held any, were not communicated to her 
ladyship. It had never entered into her mind that a match 
was possible between Lord Lufton and Lucy Robarts, nor 
had she the slightest wish to encourage it now that the 
idea was suggested to her. On such a matter she could 
sympathize with Lady Lufton, though she did not complete- 
ly agree with her as to the expediency of any interference. 
Nevertheless, she at once offered to speak to Lucy. 

“ I don’t think that Lucy has any idea in her head upon 
the subject,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

“ I dare say not — I don’t suppose she has. But young 
ladies sometimes allow themselves to fall in love, and then 
to think themselves very ill used just because they have 
had no idea in their head.” 

“I will put her on her guard, if you wish it, Lady Luf- 
ton.” 

“Exactly, my dear; that is just it. Put her on her 
guard — that is all that is necessary. She is a dear, good, 
clever girl, and it would be very sad if any thing were to 
interrupt our comfortable way of getting on with her.” 

Mrs. Robarts knew to a nicety the exact meaning of this 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


147 


threat. If Lucy would persist in securing to herself so 
much of Lord Lufton’s time and attention, her visits to 
Framley Court must become less frequent. Lady Lufton 
would do much, very much, indeed, for her friends at the 
Parsonage, but not even for them could she permit her son’s 
prospects in life to be endangered. 

There was nothing more said between them, and Mrs. 
Robarts got up to take her leave, having promised to speak 
to Lucy. 

“ You manage every thing so perfectly,” said Lady Luf- 
ton, as she pressed Mrs. Robarts’ hand, “ that I am quite at 
ease now that I find you will agree with me.” Mrs. Rob- 
arts did not exactly agree with her ladyship, but she hard- 
ly thought it worth her while to say so. 

Mrs. Robarts immediately started olF on her walk to her 
own home, and when she had got out of the grounds into 
the road, where it makes a turn toward the Parsonage, 
nearly opposite to Podgens’ shop, she saw Lord Lufton on 
horseback, and Lucy standing beside him. It was already 
nearly five o’clock, and it was getting dusk ; but as she ap- 
proached, or rather as she came, suddenly within sight of 
them, she could see that they were in close conversation. 
Lord Lufton’s face was toward her, and his horse was 
standing still ; he was leaning over toward his companion, 
and the whip, which he held in his right hand, hung almost 
over her arm and down her back, as though his hand had 
touched and perhaps rested on her shoulder. She was 
standing by his side, looking up into his face, with one 
gloved hand resting on the horse’s neck. Mrs. Robarts, as 
she saw them, could not but own that there might be cause 
for Lady Lufton’s fears. 

But then Lucy’s manner, as Mrs. Robarts approached, 
was calculated to dissipate any such fears, and to prove 
that there was no ground for them. She did not move 
from her position, or allow her hand to drop, or show that 
she was in any way either confused or conscious. She 
stood her ground, and when her sister-in-law came up, was 
smiling and at her ease. 

“ Lord Lufton wants me to learn to ride,” said she. 

“ To learn to ride !” said Fanny, not knowing what an- 
swer to make to such a proposition. 

“ Yes,” said he. “ This horse would carry her beauti- 
fully : he is as quiet as a lamb, and I made Gregory go out 


148 


FEAMLEY FAKSONAGE. 


with him yesterday with a sheet hanging over him like a 
lady’s habit, and the man got up into a lady’s saddle.” 

“ I think Gregory would make a better hand of it than 
Lucy.” 

“ The horse cantered with him as though he had carried 
a lady all his life, and his mouth is like velvet— indeed, that 
is his fault ; he is too soft-mouthed.” 

“ I suppose that’s the same sort of thing as a man being 
soft-hearted,” said Lucy. 

“ Exactly ; you ought to ride them both with a very light 
hand. They are difficult cattle to manage, but very pleas- 
ant when you know how to do it.” 

“ But you see I don’t know how to do it,” said Lucy. 

“ As regards the horse, you will learn in two days, and I 
do hope you will try. Don’t you think it will be an ex- 
cellent thing for her, Mrs. Robarts ?” 

“Lucy has got no habit,” said Mrs. Robarts, making use 
of the excuse common on all such occasions. 

“There is one of Justinia’s in the house, I know. She 
always leaves one here, in order that she may be able to 
ride when she comes.” 

“ She would not think of taking such a liberty with Lady 
Meredith’s things,” said Fanny, almost frightened at the 
proposal. 

“ Of course it is out of the question, Fanny,” said Lucy, 
now speaking rather seriously. “ In the first place, I would 
not take Lord Lufton’s horse ; in the second place, I would 
not take Lady Meredith’s habit ; in the third place, I should 
be a great deal too much frightened ; and, lastly, it is quite 
out of the question for a great many other very good rea- 
sons.” 

“Nonsense,” said Lord Luftom 

“ A great deal of nonsense,” said Lucy, laughing, “ but 
all of it of Lord Lufton’s talking. But we are getting cold 
— are we not, Fanny ? — so we will wish you good-night.” 
And then the two ladies shook hands with him, and walked 
on toward the Parsonage. 

That which astonished Mrs. Robarts the most in all this 
was the perfectly collected manner in which Lucy spoke 
and conducted herself. This, connected, as she could not 
but connect it, with the air of chagrin with which Lord 
Lufton received Lucy’s decision, made it manifest to Mrs. 
Robarts that Lord Lufton was annoyed because Lucy Avould 


FRAMLEY TARSONAGE. 


149 


not consent to learn to ride ; whereas she, Lucy herself, had 
given her refusal in a firm and decided tone, as though re- 
solved that nothing more should be said about it. 

They walked on in silence for a minute or two till they 
reached the Parsonage gate, and then Lucy said, laughing, 
“ Can’t you fancy me sitting on that great big horse ? I 
wonder what Lady Lufton would say if she saw me there, 
and his lordship giving me my first lesson ?” 

“ I don’t think she would like it,” said Fanny. 

“ Pm sure she would not. But I will not try her temper 
in that respect. Sometimes I fancy that she does not even 
like seeing Lord Lufton talking to me.” 

“ She does not like it, Lucy, when she sees him flirting 
Avith you.” 

This Mrs. Robarts said rather gravely, whereas Lucy 
had been speaking in a half-bantering tone. As soon as 
even the word flirting Avas out of Fanny’s mouth, she was 
conscious that she had been guilty of an injustice in using 
it. She had wished to say something that would convey 
to her sister-in-law an idea of what Lady Lufton Avould dis- 
like, but in doing so she had unintentionally brought against 
her an accusation. 

“ Flirting, Fanny !” said Lucy, standing still in the path, 
and looking up into her companion’s face with all her eyes. 
“ Do you mean to say that I have been flirting with Lord 
Lufton ?” 

“ I did not say that.” 

“ Or that I have allowed him to flirt with me ?” 

“ I did not mean to shock you, Lucy.” 

“ What did you mean, Fanny ?” 

“ Why, just this : that Lady Lufton would not be pleased 
if he paid you marked attentions, and if you received 
them— just like that afiair of the riding; it Avas better to 
decline it.” 

“ Of course I declined it — of course I never dreamed of 
accepting such an offer. Go riding about the country on 
his horses ! What have I done, Fanny, that you should 
su23pose such a thing ?” 

“You have done nothing, dearest.” 

“ Then why did you speak as you did just noAV ?” 

“Because I Avished to put you on your guard. You 
know, Lucy, that I do not intend to find fault with you ; 
but you may be sure, as a rule, that intimate friendships 


150 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


between young gentlemen and young ladies are dangerous 
things.” 

They then walked up to the hall door in silence. When 
they had reached it, Lucy stood in the doorway instead of 
entering it, and said, “Fanny, let us take another turn to- 
gether, if you are not tired.” 

“ No, I’m not tired.” 

“ It will be better that I should understand you at once ;” 
and then they again moved away from the house. “ Tell 
me truly now, do you think that Lord Lufton and I have 
been flirting ?” 

“ I do think that he is a little inclined to flirt with you.” 

“ And Lady Lufton has been asking you to lecture me 
about it ?” 

Poor Mrs. Robarts hardly knew what to say. She thought 
well of all the persons concerned, and was very anxious to 
behave well by all of them — was particularly anxious to 
create no ill feeling, and wished that every body should be 
comfortable, and on good terms with every body else. But 
yet the truth was forced out of her when this question was 
asked so suddenly. 

“Not to lecture you, Lucy,” she said at last. 

“ W ell, to preach to me, or to talk to me, or to give me 
a lesson — to say something that shall drive me to put my 
back up against Lord Lufton ?” 

“ To caution you, dearest. Had you heard what she 
said, you would hardly have felt angry with Lady Lufton.” 

“ Well, to caution me. It is such a pleasant thing for a 
girl to be cautioned against falling in love with a gentle- 
man, especially when the gentleman is very rich, and a lord, 
and all that sort of thing !” 

“Nobody for a moment attributes any thing wrong to 
you, Lucy.” 

“ Any thing wrong — no. I don’t know whether it w^ould 
be any thing wrong, even if I were to fall in love with him. 
I wonder whether they cautioned Griselda Grantly wLen 
she was here ? I suppose, when young lords go about, all 
the girls are cautioned as a matter of course. Why do 
they not label him ‘ dangerous ?’ ” And then again they 
•were silent for a moment, as Mrs. Robarts did not feel that 
she had any thing farther to say on the matter. 

“ ‘ Poison’ should be the word with any one so fatal as 
Lord Lufton ; and he ouglit to be made up of some par- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


151 


ticular color, for fear he should be swallowed in mis- 
take.” 

“You will be safe, you see,” said Fanny, laughing, “as 
you have been specially cautioned as to this individual 
Lttle.” 

“ Ah ! but what’s the use of that after I have had so 
many doses ? It is no good telling me about it now, when 
the mischief is done — after I have been taking it for I don’t 
know how long. Dear ! dear ! dear ! and I regarded it as 
a mere commonplace powder, good for the complexion. I 
wonder whether it’s too late, pr whether there’s any anti- 
dote ?” 

Mrs. Robarts did not always quite understand her sister- 
in-law, and now she was a little at a loss. “ I don’t think 
there’s much harm done yet on either side,” she said, 
cheerily. 

“ Ah ! you don’t know, Fanny. But I do think that if 
I die — as I shall — I feel I shall — and if so, I do think it 
ought to go very hard with Lady Lufton. Why didn’t she 
label him ‘ dangerous’ in time ?” and then they went into 
the house and up to their own rooms. 

It was difficult for any one to understand Lucy’s state of 
mind at present, and it can hardly be said that she under- 
stood it herself. She felt that she had received a severe 
blow in having been thus made the subject of remark with 
reference to Lord Lufton. She knew that her pleasant 
evenings at Lufton Court were now over, and that she 
could not again talk to him in an unrestrained tone and 
without embarrassment. She had felt the air of the whole 
place to be very cold before her intimacy with him, and 
now it must be cold again. Two homes had been open to 
her, Framley Court and the Parsonage ; and now, as far 
as comfort was concerned, she must confine herself to the 
latter. She could not be again comfortable in Lady Luf- 
ton’s drawing-room. 

But then she could not help asking herself whether Lady 
Lufton was not right. She had had courage enough, and 
presence of*mind, to joke about the matter when her sister- 
in-law spoke to her, and yet she was quite aware that it was 
no joking matter. Lord Lufton had not absolutely made 
love to her, but he had latterly spoken to her in a manner 
which she knew was not compatible with that ordinary 
comfortable masculine friendship with tho idea of which 


152 


FEAIklLEY PAESONAGE. 


SAG had once satisfied herself. Was not Fanny right when 
she said that intimate friendships of that nature were dan- 
gerous things ? 

Yes, Lucy, very .dangerous. Lucy, before she w'ent to 
bed that night, had owned to herself that they were so ; 
and lying there with sleepless eyes and a moist pillow, she 
was driven to confess that the label would in truth be now 
too late, that the caution had come to her after the poison 
had been swallowed. W as there any antidote ? That was 
all that was left for her to consider. But, nevertheless, on 
the following morning she ^uld appear quite at her ease. 
And when Mark had left the house after breakfast, she 
could still joke with Fanny about Lady Lufton’s poison 
cupboard. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ME. CEAWLEY OP IIOGGLESTOCK. 

And then there was that other trouble in Lady Lufton’s 
mind — the sins, namely, of her selected parson. She had 
selected him, and she was by no means inclined to give 
him up, even though his sins against parsondom were griev- 
ous. Indeed, she was a woman not prone to give up any 
thing, and of all things not prone to give up a protege. 
The very fact that she herself had selected him was the 
strongest argument in his favor. 

But. his sins against parsondom were becoming very 
grievous in her eyes, and she was at a loss to know what 
steps to take. She hardly dared to take him to task — him 
himself. W ere she to do so, and should he then tell her to 
mind her own business — as he probably might do, though 
not in those words— there would be a schism in the parish ; 
and almost any thing would be better than that. The 
whole work of her life would be upset ; all the outlets of 
her energy would be impeded, if not absolutely closed, if a 
state of things were to come to pass in which she and the 
parson of her parish should not be on good terms. 

But what was to be done ? Early in the winter he had 
gone to Chaldicotes and to Gatherum Castle, consorting 
with gamblers, Whigs, atheists, men of loose pleasure, and 
Proudieites. That she had condoned ; and now he was 
turning out a hunting parson on her hands. It was all 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


153 


very well for Fanny to say that he merely looked at the 
hounds as he rode about his parish. Fanny might be de- 
ceived. Being his wife, it might be her duty not to see 
her husband’s iniquities. But Lady Lufton could not be 
deceived. She knew very well in what part of the county 
Cobbold’s Ashes lay. It was not in Framley parish, nor in 
the next parish to it. It was half way across to Chaldicotes 
— in the western division ; and she had heard of that run 
in which two horses had been killed, and in which Parson 
Robarts had won such immortal glory among West Bar- 
setshire sportsmen. It was not easy to keep Lady Lufton 
in the dark as to matters occurring in her own county. 

All these things she knew, but as yet had not noticed, 
grieving over them in her own heart the more on that ac- 
count. Spoken grief relieves itself ; and when one can give 
counsel, one always hopes at least that that counsel will be 
effective. To her son she had said, more than once, that it 
was a pity that Mr. Robarts should follow the hounds. 
“ The world has agreed that it is unbecoming in a clergy- 
man,” she would urge, in her deprecatory tone. But her 
son would by no means give her any comfort. “ fie doesn’t 
hunt, you know — not as I do,” he would say. “ And if he 
did, I really don’t see the harm of it. A man must have 
some amusement, even if he be an archbishop.” “ He has 
amusement at home,” Lady Lufton would answer. “ What 
does his wife do — and his sister ?” This allusion to Lucy, 
however, was very soon dropped. 

Lord Lufton would in no wise help her. He would not 
even passively discourage the vicar, or refrain from offering 
to give him a seat in going to the meets. Mark and Lord 
Lufton had been boys together, and his lordship knew that 
Mark in his heart would enjoy a brush across the country 
quite as well as he himself; and then, what was the harm 
of it ? 

Lady Lufton’s best aid had been in Mark’s own con- 
science. He had taken himself to task more than once, 
and had promised himself that he would not become a 
sporting parson. Indeed, where would be his hopes of ul- 
terior promotion if he allowed himself to degenerate so far 
as that ? It had been his intention, in reviewing what he 
considered to be the necessary proprieties of clerical life, 
in laying out his own future mode of living, to assume no 
peculiar sacerdotal strictness ; he would not bo known as a 


154 


FEAMXEY PAKSONAGE. 


denouncer of dancing or of card-tables, of theatres or of 
novel-reading ; he would take the world around him as he 
found it, endeavoring by precept and practice to lend a 
hand to the gradual amelioration which Christianity is pro- 
ducing; but he would attempt no sudden or majestic re- 
forms. Cake and ale would still be popular, and ginger be 
hot in the mouth, let him preach ever so — let him be never 
so solemn a hermit ; but a bright face, a true trusting heart, 
a strong arm, and a humble mind, might do much in teach- ' 
ing those around him that men may be gay and yet not 
profligate, that women may be devout and yet not dead to 
the world. 

Such had been his ideas as to his own future life ; and 
though many will think that as a clergyman he should have 
gone about his work with more serious devotion of thought, 
nevertheless there was some wisdom in them — some folly 
also, undoubtedly, as appeared by the troubles into which 
they led him. 

“ I will not aflect to think that to be bad,” said he to 
himself, “ which in my heart of hearts does not seem to be 
bad.” And thus he resolved that he might live without 
contamination among hunting squires. And then, being a 
man only too prone by nature to do as others did around 
liiin, he found, by degrees, that that could hardly be wrong 
for him which he admitted to be right for others. 

But still his conscience upbraided him, and he declared 
to himself more than once that after this year he would 
hunt no more. And then his own Fanny would look at 
liim on his return home on those days in a manner that cut 
him to the heart. She would say nothing to him. . She 
never inquired in a sneering tone, and with angry eyes, 
whether he had enjoyed his day’s sport; but when he 
spoke of it, she could not answer him with enthusiasm ; 
and in other matters which concerned him she was always 
enthusiastic. 

After a while, too, he made matters worse, for about the 
end of March he did another very foolish thing. He al- 
most consented to buy an expensive horse from Sowerby — 
an animal which he by no means wanted, and which, if 
once possessed, would certainly lead him into^ farther 
trouble. A gentleman, when he has a good horse in his 
stable, does not like to leave him there eating his head olf. 
If he be a gig-horse, the owner of him will be keen to drive 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


155 


a gig; if a liiinter, the happy possessor will wish to be 
with a pack of hounds. 

“ Mark,” said Sowerby to him one day, when they were 
out together, “ this brute of mine is so fresh, I can hardly 
ride him ; you are young and strong ; change with me for 
an hour or so.” And then they did change, and the horse 
on which Robarts found himself mounted went away with 
him beautifully. 

“He’s a splendid animal,” said Mark, when they again 
met. 

“ Yes, for a man of your weight. He’s thrown away 
upon me — too much of a horse for my purposes. I don’t 
get along now quite as well as I used to do. He is a nice 
sort of hunter — just rising six, you know.” 

How it came to pass that the price of the splendid ani- 
mal was mentioned between them I need not describe with 
exactness. But it did come to pass that Mr. Sowerby told 
the parson that the horse should be his for £130. 

“ And I really wish you’d take him,” said Sowerby. “ It 
would be the means of partially relieving my mind .of a 
great weight.” 

Mark looked up into his friend’s face with an air of sur- 
prise, for he did not at the moment understand how this 
should be the case. 

“ I am afraid, you know, that you will have to put your 
hand into your pocket sooner or later about that accursed 
bill” — Mark shrank as the profane word struck his ears — 
“ and I should be glad to think that you had got something 
in hand in the way of value.” 

“ Do you mean that I shall have to pay the whole sum 
of £500 ?” 

“Oh dear, no, nothing of the kind; but something, I 
dare say, you will have to pay : if you like to take Dandy 
for a hundred and thirty, you can be prepared for that 
amount when Tozer comes to you. The horse is dog cheap, 
and you will have a long day for your money.” 

Mark at first declared, in a quiet, determined tone, that 
he did not want the horse ; but it afterward appeared to 
him that if it were so fated that he must pay a portion of 
Mr. Sowerby’s debts, he might as well repay himself to . 
any extent within his power. It would be as well, perhaps, 
that he should take the horse and sell him. It did not oc- 
cur to him that by so doing he would put it in Mr. Sower- 


156 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


by’s power to say that some valuable consideration had 
passed between them with reference to this bill, and that 
he would be aiding that gentleman in preparing an inex- 
tricable confusion of money-matters between them. Mr. 
Sowerby well knew the value of this. It would enable 
him to make a plausible story, as he had done in that other 
case of Lord Lufton. 

“ Are you going to have Dandy Sowerby said to him 
again. 

“I can’t say that I will just at present,” said the parson. 
“ What should I want of him now the season’s over ?” 

“ Exactly, my dear fellow ; and what do I want of him 
now the season’s over ? If it were the beginning of Octo- 
ber instead of the end of March, Dandy would be up at 
two hundred and thirty instead of one ; in six months’ 
time that horse will be worth any thing you like to ask for 
him. Look at his bone.” 

The vicar did look at his bones, examining the brute in 
a very knowing and unclerical manner. He lifted the ani- 
mal’s four feet one after another, handling the frogs, and 
measuring with his eye the proportion of the parts ; he 
passed his hand up and down the legs, spanning the bones 
of the lower joint ; he peered into his eyes, took into con- 
sideration the width of his chest, the dip of his back, the 
form of his ribs, the curve of his haunches, and his capa- 
bilities for breathing when pressed by work. And then 
he stood away a little, eying him from the side, and taking 
in a general idea of the form and make of the whole. “ He 
seems to stand over a little, I think,” said the parson. 

“It’s the lie of the ground. Move him about. Bob. 
There, now, let him stand there.” 

“ He’s not perfect,” said Mark. “ I don’t quite like his 
heels ; but no doubt he’s a nicish cut of a horse.” 

“ I rather think he is. If he were perfect, as you say, 
he would not be going into your stables for a hundred and 
thirty. Do you ever remember to have seen a perfect 
horse ?” 

“Your mare Mrs. Gamp was as nearly perfect as pos- 
sible.” 

“ Even Mrs. Gamp had her faults. In the first place, 
she was a bad feeder. But one certainly doesn’t often 
come across any thing much better than Mrs. Gamp.” 
And thus the matter was talked over between them with 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


157 


much stable conversation, all of which tended to make 
Sowerby more and more oblivious of his friend’s sacred 
profession, and perhaps to make the vicar himself too fre- 
quently oblivious of it also. But no, he was not oblivious 
of it. He was even mindful of it; but mindful of it in 
such a manner that his thoughts on the subject were now- 
adays always painful. 

There is a parish called Hogglestock lying away quite in 
the northern extremity of the eastern division of the coun- 
ty — lying also on the borders of the western division. I 
almost fear that it will become necessary, before this histo- 
ry be completed, to provide a map of Barsetshire for the 
due explanation of all these localities. Framley is also in 
the northern portion of the county, but just to the south 
of the grand trunk line of railway from which the branch 
to Barchester strikes off at a point some thirty miles nearer 
to London. The station for Framley Court is Silverbridge, 
which is, however, in the western division of the county. 
Hogglestock is to the north of the railway, the line of which, 
however, runs through a portion of the parish, and it ad- 
joins Framley, though the churches are as much as seven 
miles apart. Barsetshire, taken altogether, is a pleasant 
green tree-becrowded county, with large bosky hedges, 
pretty damp deep lanes, and roads with broad grass mar- 
gins running along them. Such is the general nature of 
the county ; but just up in its northern extremity this na- 
ture alters. There it is bleak and ugly, with low artificial 
hedges and without wood ; not uncultivated, for it is all 
portioned out into new-looking large fields, bearing turnips, 
and wheat, and mangel, all in due course of agricultural ro- 
tation ; but it has none of the special beauties of English 
cultivation. There is not a gentleman’s, house in the par- 
ish of Hogglestock besides that of the clergyman ; and 
this, though it is certainly the house of a gentleman, can 
hardly be said to be fit to be so. It is ugly, and straight, 
and small. There is a garden attached to the house, half 
in front of it and half behind ; but this garden, like the 
rest of the parish, is by no means ornamental, though suffi- 
ciently useful. It produces cabbages, but no trees ; pota- 
toes of, I believe, an excellent description, but hardly any 
flowery, and nothing worthy of the name of a shrub. In- 
deed, the whole parish of Hogglestock should have been 
in the adjoining county, which is by no means sa attractive 


158 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


as Barsetshire — a fact well known to those few of my read- 
ers who are well acquainted with their own country. 

Mr. Crawley, whose name has been mentioned in these 
pages, was the incumbent of Hogglestock. On what prin- 
ciple the remuneration of our parish clergymen was settled 
when the original settlement was made, no deepest, keenest 
lover of middle-aged ecclesiastical black-letter learning can, 
1 take it, now say. That the priests were to be paid from 
tithes of the parish produce, out of which tithes certain 
other good things were to be bought and paid for, such as 
church repairs and education, of so much the most of us 
have an inkling. That a rector, being a big sort of parson, 
owned the tithes of his parish in full, or, at any rate, that 
part of them intended for the clergyman, and that a vicar 
was somebody’s deputy, and therefore entitled only to lit- 
tle tithes, as being a little body — of so much we that are 
simple in such matters have a general idea. But one can 
not conceive that even m this way any approximation could 
have been made, even in those old mediasval days, toward 
a fair proportioning of the pay to the work. At any rate, 
it is clear enough that there is no such approximation now. 

And what a screech would there not be among the clergy 
of the Church, even in these reforming days, if any over- 
bold reformer were to suggest that such an approximation 
should be attempted ? Let those who know clergymen, 
and like them, and have lived with them, only fancy it ! 
Clergymen to be paid, not according to the temporalities 
of any living which they may have acquired either by merit 
or favor, but in accordance with the work to be done ! O 
Doddington ! and O Stanhope, think of this, if an idea so 
sacrilegious can find entrance into your warm ecclesiastical 
bosoms ! Ecclesiastical work to be bought and paid for 
according to its quantity and quality ! 

But, nevertheless, one may prophesy that we English- 
men must come to this, disagreeable as the idea undoubt- 
edly is. Most pleasant-minded Churchmen feel, I think, 
on this subject, pretty much in the same way. Our present 
arrangement’ of parochial incomes is beloved as being time- 
honored, gentlemanlike, English, and picturesque. We 
would fain adhere to it closely as long as we can, but we 
know that we do so by the force of our prejudices, and not 
by that of our judgment. A time-honored, gentlernanlike, 
English, picturesque arrangement is so far very delightful. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


159 


But are there not other attributes very desirable — nay, ab- 
solutely necessary — in respect to which this time-honored, 
picturesque arrangement is so very deficient ? 

How pleasant it was, too, that one bishop should be get- 
ting fifteen thousand a year, and another, with an equal 
cure of parsons, only four ! That a certain prelate could 
get twenty thousand one year, and his successor in the 
same diocese only five the next! There was something in 
it pleasant and picturesque ; it was an arrangement endowed 
with feudal charms, and the change which they have made 
was distasteful to many of us. A bishop with a regular 
salary, and no appanage of land and land-bailifi*s, is only 
half a bishop. Let any man prove to me the contrary ever 
so thoroughly — let me prove it to my own self ever so oft- 
en, my heart in this matter is not thereby a whit altered. 
One liked to know that there was a dean or two who got 
his three thousand a year, and that old Dr. Purple held four 
stalls, one of which was golden, and the other three silver- 
gilt! Such knowledge was always pleasant to me! A 
golden stall ! How sweet is the sound thereof to church- 
loving ears ! 

But bishops have been shorn of their beauty, and deans 
are in their decadence. A utilitarian age requires the fat- 
ness of the ecclesiastical land, in order that it may be di- 
vided out into small portions of provender, on which neces- 
sary working clergymen may live — into portions so infini- 
tesimally small that w'orking clergymen can hardly live. 
And the full-blown rectors and vicars, with full-blown tithes 
— with tithes when too full-blown for strict utilitarian prin-' 
cijfies — will necessarily follow. Stanhope and Doddington 
must bow their heads, with such compensation for tem- 
poral rights as may be extracted, but probably without 
such compensation as may be desired. In other trades, 
professions, and lines of life, men are paid according to 
their work. Let it be so in the Church. Such will sooner 
or later be the edict of a utilitarian, reforming, matter-of- 
fact House of Parliament. 

I have a scheme of my own on the subject, which I will 
not introduce here, seeing that neither men nor women 
would read it. And with reference to this matter, I will 
only here farther explain that all these words have been 
brought about by the fact, necessary to be here stated, that 
Mr. Crawley only received one hundred and thirty pounds 


160 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


a year for performing the whole parochial duty of the pan 
ish of Hogglestock. And Hogglestock is a large parish. 
It includes two populous villages, abounding in brick-ma^ 
kers, a race of men very troublesome to a zealous parson 
Avho won’t let men go rollicking to the devil without inten 
ference. Hogglestock has full work for two men ; and yet 
all the funds therein applicable to parson’s work is this mis- 
erable stipend of one hundred and thirty pounds a year. 
It is a stipend neither picturesque, nor time-honored, nor 
feudal, for Hogglestock takes rank only as a perj)etual cu- 
racy. 

Mr. Crawley has been mentioned before as a clergyman 
of whom Mr. Robarts said that he almost thought it wrong 
to take a walk out of his own parish. In so saying Mark 
Robarts of course burlesqued his brother parson ; but there 
can be no doubt that Mr. Crawley was a strict man — a 
strict, stern, unpleasant man, and one who feared God and 
his own conscience. We must say a word or two of Mr. 
Crawley and his concerns. 

He was now some forty years of age, but of these he had 
not been in possession even of his present benefice for more 
than four or five. The first ten years of his life as a cler- 
gyman had been passed in performing the duties and strug- 
gling through the life of a curate in a bleak, ugly, cold par- 
ish on the northern coast of Cornwall. It had been a weary 
life and a fearful struggle, made up of duties ill requited 
and not always satisfactorily performed, of love and pov- 
erty, of increasing cares, of sickness, debt, and death. For 
Mr. Crawley had married almost as soon as he was ordain- 
ed, and children had been born to him in that chill, com- 
fortless Cornish cottage. He had married a lady well edu- 
cated and softly nurtured, but not dowered with worldly 
wealth. They two had gone forth determined to fight 
bravely together ; to disregard the world and the world’s 
ways, looking only to God and to each other for their com- 
fort. They would give up ideas of gentle living, of soft 
raiment, and delicate feeding. Others — those that work 
with their hands, even the bettermost of such workers — 
could live in decency and health upon even such provision 
as he could earn as a clergyman. In such manner would 
they live, so poorly and so decently, working out their 
work, not with their hands, but with their hearts. 

And so they had established themselves, beginning the 


FBAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


101 


world with one barefooted little girl of fourteen to aid them 
in their small household matters ; and for a while tliey had 
both kept heart, loving each other dearly, and prospering 
somewhat in their work. But a man who has once walked 
the world as a gentleman knows not Avhat it is to change 
liis position, and place himself lower- down in the social 
rank ; much less can he know what it is so to put down 
the woman whom he loves. There are a thousand things, 
mean and trilling in themselves, which a man despises when 
he thinks of them in his philosophy, but to dispense with 
which puts his philosophy to so stern a proof. Let any 
plainest man who reads this think of his usual mode of get- 
ting himself into his matutinal garments, and confess how 
much such a struggle would cost him. 

And then children had come. The wife of the laboring 
man does rear her children, and often rears them in health, 
without even so many appliances of comfort as found their 
way into Mrs. Crawley’s cottage ; but the task to her was 
almost more than she could accomplish. Not that she 
ever fainted or gave way: she was made of the sterner 
metal of the two, and could last on while he was prostrate. 

And sometimes he was prostrate — prostrate in soul and 
spirit. Then would he complain with bitter voice, crying 
out that the world was too hard for him, that his back was * 
broken with his burden, that his God had deserted him. 
For days and days, in such moods, he would stay within 
his cottage, never darkening the door or seeing other face 
than those of his own inmates. Those days were terrible 
both to him and her. He would sit there unwashed, with his 
unshorn face resting on his hand, with an ©Id dressing-gown 
hanging loose about him, hardly tasting food, seldom speak- 
ing, striving to pray, but striving sg frequently in vain. 
And then he would rise from his chair, and, with a burst 
of phrensy, call upon his Creator to remove him from this 
misery. 

In these moments she never deserted him. At one pe- 
riod they had had four children, and though the whole 
•weight of this young brood rested on her arms, on her 
muscles, on her strength of mind and body, she never ceased 
in her efforts to comfort him. Then at length, falling ut- 
terly upon the ground, he would pour forth piteous pray- 
ers for mercy, and, after a night of sleep, would once more 
go forth to his work. 


162 


PRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


But she never yielded to despair ; the struggle was never 
beyond her powers of endurance. She had possessed her 
share of woman’s loveliness, but that was now all gone. 
Her color quickly faded, and the fresh, soft tints soon de- 
serted her face and forehead. She became thin, and rough, 
and almost haggard — thin, till her cheek-bones were nearly 
pressing through her skin, till her elbows were sharp, and 
her finger-bones as those of a skeleton. Her eye did not 
lose its lustre, but it became unnaturally bright, prominent, 
and too large for her wan face. The soft brown locks which 
she had once loved to brush back, scorning, as she would 
boast to herself, to care that they should be seen, were now 
sparse enough, and all untidy and unclean. It was mat- 
ter of little thought now whether they were seen or no. 
Whether he could be made fit to go into his pulpit — wheth- 
er they might be fed — those four innocents — and their 
backs kept from the cold wind — that was now the matter 
of her thought. 

And then two of them died, and she went forth herself 
to see them laid under the frost-bound sod, lest he should 
faint in his work over their graves. For he would ask 
aid from no man — such at least was his boast through all. 

Two of them died, but their illness had been long ; and 
• then debts came upon them. Debt, indeed, had been creep- 
ing on them with slow but sure feet during the last five 
years. Who can see his children hungry, and not take 
bread if it be offered ? Who can see his wife lying in 
sharpest want, and not seek a remedy if there be a remedy 
within reach ? So debt had come upon them, and rude 
men pressed for small sums of money — ^for sums small to 
the world, but impossibly large to them. And he would 
hide himself within there, in that cranny pi an inner cham- 
ber — hide himself with deep shame from the world — with 
shame, and a sinking heart, and a broken spirit. 

But had such a man no friend ? it will be said. Such 
men, I take it, do not make many friends. But this man 
was not utterly friendless. Almost every year one visit 
was paid to him in his Cornish curacy by a brother clergy- 
nian, «an old college friend, who, as far as might in him lie, 
did give aid to the curate and his wife. This gentleman 
would take up his abode for a week at a farmer’s in the 
neighborhood, and though he found Mr. Crawley in despair, 
lie would leave him with some drops of comfort in his soul. 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


163 


Nor were the benefits in this respect all on one side. Mr. 
Crawley, though at some periods weak enough for himself, 
could be strong for others ; and, more than once, was strong 
to the great advantage of this man whom he loved. And 
then, too, pecuniary assistance Avas forthcoming — in those 
earlier years not in great amount, for this friend was not 
then among the rich ones of the earth — ^but in amount suf- 
ficient for that moderate hearth, if only its acceptance could 
have been managed. But in that matter there were diffi- 
culties without end. Of absolute money tenders Mr. CraAV- 
ley wmuld accept none. But a bill here and there Avas paid, 
the Avife assisting ; and shoes came for Kate, till Kate Avas 
placed beyond the need of shoes ; and cloth for Harry and 
Frank found its way surreptitiously in beneath the cover 
of that Avife’s solitary trunk — cloth with which those lean 
fingers worked garments for the tAVO boys, to be worn — 
such Avas God’s will — only by the one. 

Such were Mr. and Mrs. Crawley in their Cornish curacy, 
and during their severest struggles. To one Avho thinks 
that a fair day’s Avork is worth a fair day’s wages, it seems 
hard enough that a man should Avork so hard and receive 
so little. There Avill be those Avho think that the fault Avas 
all his own in marrying so young. But still there remains 
that question, Is not a fair day’s work Avorth a fair day’s 
Avages ? This man did AVork hard — at a task perhaps the 
hardest of any that a man may do, and for ten years he 
earned some seventy pounds a year. Will any one say that 
he received fair Avages for his fair work, let him be married 
or single ? And yet there are so many Avho would fain 
pay their clergy, if they only kneAV hoAV to apply their 
money ! But that is a long subject, as Mr. Robarts had 
told Miss Dunstable. 

Such was Mr. Crawley in his Cornish curacy. 


CHAPTER XV. 

LADY LTJFTON’s EAIBASSADOE. 

And then, in the days Avhich followed, that friend of Mr. 
Crawley’s, whose name, by-the-by, is yet to be mentioned, 
received quick and great promotion. Mr. Arabin byname 
he Avas then — Dr. Arabin afterward, Avhen that quick and 


1G4 


PRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


great promotion reached its climax. He had been simply 
a fellow of Lazarus in those former years ; then he became 
vicar of St. Ewold’s, in East Barsetshire, and had not yet 
got himself settled there when he married Widow Bold, a 
widow with belongings in land and funded money, and with 
but one small baby as an encumbrance. ISTor had he even 
yet married her — had only engaged himself so to do, when 
they made him Dean of Barchester, all which may be read 
in the diocesan and county chronicles. 

And, now that he was wealthy, the new dean did con- 
trive to pay the debts of his poor friend, some lawyer of 
Camelford assisting him. It was but a paltry schedule 
after all, amounting in the total to something not much 
above a hundred pounds. And then, in the course of eight- 
een months, this poor piece of preferment fell in the dean’s 
way, this incumbency of Hogglestock, with its stipend 
reaching one hundred and thirty pounds a year. Even that 
was worth double the Cornish curacy, and there was, more- 
over, a house attached to it. Poor Mrs. Crawley, when she 
heard of it, thought that their struggles of poverty were 
now well-nigh over. What might not be done with a hund- 
red and thirty pounds by people who had lived for ten 
years on seventy ? 

And so they moved away out of that cold, bleak coun- 
try, carrying with them their humble household gods, and 
settled themselves in another country, cold and bleak also, 
but less terribly so than the former. They settled them- 
selves, and again began their struggles against man’s hard- 
ness and the devil’s zeal. I have said that Mr. Crawley 
was a stern, unpleasant man, and it certainly was so. The 
man must be made of very sterling stuff whom continued 
and undeserved misfortune does not make unpleasant. This 
man had so far succumbed to grief that it had left upon him 
its marks, palpable and not to be effaced. He cared little 
for society, judging men to be doing evil who did care for 
it. He knew as a fact, and believed with all his heart, that 
these sorrows had come to him from the hand of God, and 
they would work for his weal in the long run ; but not the 
less did they make him morose, silent, and dogged. He 
had always at his heart a feeling that he and hisliad been 
ill used, and too often solaced himself* at the devil’s bidding, 
with the conviction that eternity would make equal that 
which life in this world had made so unequal — the last bait 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


165 


that with which the devil angles after those who are strug- 
gling to elude his rod and line. 

The Framley property did not run into the parish of 
Hogglestock ; but, nevertheless, Lady Lufton did what she 
could in tlie way of kindness to these new-comers. Provi- 
dence had not supplied Hogglestock with a Lady Lufton, 
or with any substitute in the shape of lord or lady, squire 
or squiress. The Hogglestock farmers, male and female, 
were a rude, rough set, not bordering in their social rank 
on the farmer gentle ; and Lady Lufton, knowing this, and 
hearing something of these Crawleys from Mrs. Arabin, ' 
the dean’s wife, trimmed her lamps, so that they should 
shed a wider light, and pour forth some of their influence 
on that forlorn household. 

And, as regards Mrs. Crawley, Lady Lufton by no means 
found that her work and good-will were thrown away. 
Mrs. Crawley accepted her kindness with thankfulness, and 
returned to some of the softnesses of life under her hand. 
As for dining at Framley Court, that was out of the ques- 
tion. Mr. Crawley, she knew, would not hear of it, even 
if other things were fitting, and appliances were at com- 
mand. Indeed, Mrs. Crawley at once said that she felt her- 
self unfit to go through such a ceremony with any thing 
like comfort. The dean, she said, would talk of their go- 
ing to stay at the deanery, but she thought it quite impos- 
sible that either of them should endure even that. But, 
all the same. Lady Lufton was a comfort to her ; and the 
poor woman felt that it was well to have a lady near her 
in case of need. 

The task was much harder with Mr. Crawley, but even 
with him it was not altogether unsuccessful. Lady Lufton 
talked to him of his parish and of her own ; made Mark 
Robarts go to him, and by degrees did something toward 
civilizing him. Between him and Robarts, too, there grew 
up an intimacy rather than a friendship. Robarts would 
submit to his opinion on matters of ecclesiastical and even 
theological law, would listen to him with patience, would 
agree with him where he could, and differ from him mildly 
when he could not ; for Robarts was a man who made him- 
self pleasant to all men. And thus, under Lady Lufton’s 
wing, there grew up a connection between Framley and 
Hogglestock, in which Mrs. Robarts also assisted. 

And, now that Lady Lufton was looking about her, to 


166 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


see how she might best bring proper clerical influence to 
bear upon her own recreant fox-hunting parson, it occurred 
to her that she might use Mr. Crawley in the matter. Mr. 
Crawley would certainly be on her side as far as opinion 
went, and would have no fear of expressing his opinion to 
his brother clergyman. So she sent for Mr. Crawley. 

In appearance lie was the very opposite to Mark Robarts. 
He was a lean, slim, meagre man, with shoulders slightly 
curved, and pale, lank, long locks of ragged hair ; his fore- 
head was high, but his face was narrow ; his small gray 
eyes were deeply sunken in his head, his nose was well 
formed, his lips thin and his mouth expressive. Nobody 
could look at him without seeing that there was a purpose 
and a meaning in his countenance. He always wore, in 
summer and winter, a long dusky gray coat, which button- 
ed close up to his neck, and descended almost to his heels. 
He was full six feet high, but, being so slight in build, he 
looked as though he were taller. 

He came at once at Lady Lufton’s bidding, putting him- 
self into the gig beside the servant, to whom he spoke no 
single word during the journey. And* the man, looking 
into his face, was struck with taciturnity. Now Mark 
Robarts would have talked with him the whole way from 
Hogglestock to Framley Court, discoursing partly as to 
horses and land, but partly also as to higher things. 

And then Lady Lufton opened her mind and told her 
griefs to Mr. Crawley, urging, however, through the whole 
length of her narrative, that Mr. Robarts was an excellent 
parish clergyman — “just such a clergyman in his church 
as I would wish him to be,” she explained, with the view 
of saving herself from an expression of any of Mr. Craw- 
ley’s special ideas as to church teaching, and of confining 
him to the one subject-matter in hand; “but he got this 
living so young, Mr. Crawley, that he is hardly quite as 
steady as I could wish him to be. It has been as much 
my fault as his own in placing him in such a position so 
early in life.” 

“ I think it has,” said Mr. Crawley, who might, perhaps, 
be a little sore on such a subject. 

“ Quite so — quite so,” continued her ladyship, swallow, 
ing down with a gulp a certain sense of anger. “But tha'n: 
is done now, and is past cure. That Mr. Robarts will be. 
come a credit to his profession I do not doubt, for his heai> 


FEAltfLEY PARSONAGE. 167 

is in the right place and his sentiments are good ; but I fear 
that at preserfl^he is succumbing to temptation.” 

“ I am told that he hunts two or three times a week. 
Every body round us is talking about it.” 

“ ISTo, Mr. Crawley, not two or three times a week ; 
very seldom above once, I think. And then I do believe 
he does it more with the view of being with Lord Lufton 
than any thing else.” 

“ I can not see that that would make the matter better,” 
said Mr. Crawley. 

“ It would show that he was not strongly imbued with 
a taste which I can not but regard as vicious in a clergy- 
man.” 

“It must be vicious in all men,” said Mr. Crawley. “It 
is in itself cruel, and leads to idleness and profligacy.” 

Again Sady Lufton made a gulp. She had called Mr. 
Crawley thither to her aid, and felt that it would be inex- 
pedient to quarrel Avith him. But she did not like to be 
told that her son’s amusement was idle and profligate. She 
had always regarded hunting as a proper pursuit for a 
country gentleman. It was, indeed, in her eyes, one of the 
peculiar institutions of country life in England, and it may 
almost be said that she looked upon the Barsetshire hunt 
as something sacred. She could not endure to hear that 
a fox Avas trapped, and alloAved her turkeys to be purloined 
Avithout a groan. Such being the case, she did not like be- 
ing told that it was vicious, and had by no means Avished 
to consult Mr. CraAvley on that matter. But, ncA^ertheless, 
she SAvallowed down her wrath. 

“ It is, at any rate, unbecoming in a clergyman,” she 
said ; “ and as I knoAV that Mr. Bobarts places a high value 
on your opinion, perhaps you Avill not object to advise him 
to discontinue it. He might possibly feel aggrieved Avere 
I to interfere personally on such a question.” 

“ I haA^e no doubt he AA^ould,” said Mr. Crawley. “ It is 
not Avithin a Avoman’s province to give counsel to a clergy- 
man on such a subject, unless she be very near and very 
dear to him — his Avife, or mother, or sister.” 

“ As living in the same parish, you know, and being, per- 
haps — ” the leading person in it, and the one Avho naturally 
rules the others. Those Avould have been the fitting words 
for the expression of her ladyship’s ideas ; but she remem- 
bered herself, and did not use them. She had made up her 


168 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


mind that, great as her influence ought to be, she was not 
the proper person to speak to Mr. Kobarts as to his per- 
nicious, unclerical habits, and she would not now depart 
from her resolve by attempting to prove that she was the 
proper person. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Crawley, “just so. All that would en- 
title him to ofier you his counsel if he thought that your 
mode of life was such as to require it, but could by no 
means justify you in addressing yourself to him.” 

This was very hard upon Lady Luftou. She was en- 
deavoring with all her woman’s strength to do her best, 
and endeavoring so to do it that the feelings of the sinner 
might be spared, and yet the ghostly comforter whom she 
had evoked to her aid treated her as though she were ar- 
rogant and overbearing. She acknowledged the weakness 
of her own position with reference to her parish clergyman 
by oalling in the aid of Mr. Crawley, and, under such cir- 
cumstances, he might, at any rate, have abstained from 
throwing that weakness in her teeth. 

“Well, sir, I hope my mode of life may not require it; 
but that is not exactly to the point ; what I wish to know 
is whether you will speak to Mr. Robarts ?” 

“ Certainly I will,” said he. 

“ Then I shall be much obliged to you. But, Mr. Craw- 
ley, pray — pray remember this : I would flot on any ac- 
count wish that you should be harsh with him. He is an 
excellent young man, and — ” 

“ Lady Lufton, if I do this I can only do it in my own 
way, as best I may, using such words as God may give me 
at the time. I hope that I am harsh to no man ; but it is 
worse than useless, in all cases, to speak any thing but the 
truth.” 

“ Of course — of course.” ' 

“ If the ears be too delicate to hear the truth, the mind 
will be too perverse to profit by it.” And then Mr. Craw- 
ley gbt up to take his leave. 

But Lady Lufton insisted that he should go with her to 
luncheon. He hummed and ha’d, and would fain have re- 
fused, but on this subject she was peremptory. It might 
be that she was unfit to advise a clergyman as to his duties, 
but in a matter of hospitality she did knoAV what she was 
about. Mr. Crawley should not leave the house without 
refreshment. As to this, she carried her point ; and Mr. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


169 


Crawley — when the matter before him was cold roast-beef 
and hot potatoes, instead of the relative position of a parish 
priest and his parishioner — became humble, submissive, and 
almost timid. Lady Lufton recommended Madeira instead 
of Sherry, and Mr. Crawley obeyed at once, and was, in- 
deed, perfectly unconscious of the difference. Then there 
was a basket of sea-kale in the gig for Mrs. Crawley ; that 
he would have left behind had he dared, but he did not 
dare. Not a word was said to him as to the marmalade 
for the children which was hidden under the sea-kale, Lady 
Lufton feeling well aware that that would find its way to 
its proper destination without any necessity for his co-op- 
eration. And then Mr. Crawley returned home in the 
Framley Court gig. 

Three or four days after this he walked over to Framley 
Parsonage. This he did on a Saturday, having learned 
that the hounds never hunted on that day ; and he started 
early, so that he might be sure to catch Mr. Robarts before 
he went out on his parish business. He was quite early 
enough to attain this object, for when he reached the Par- 
sonage door at about half past nine, the vicar, with his wife 
and sister, 'svere just sitting down to breakfixst. 

“ Oh, Crawley,” said Robarts, before the other had well 
spoken, “ you are a capital fellow and then he got him 
into a chair, and Mrs. Robarts had poured him out tea, and 
Lucy had surrendered to him a knife and plate, before he 
knew under what guise to excuse his coming among them. 

“ I hope you will excuse this intrusion,” at last he mut- 
tered ; “ but I have a few words of business to which I 
will request your attention presently. 

“ Certainly,” said Robarts, conveying a broiled kidney 
on to the plate before Mr. Crawley ; “ but there is no prep- 
aration for business like a good breakfast. Lucy, hand 
Mr. Crawlev the buttered toast. Eggs, Fanny — where are 
the eggs And then John, in livery, brought in the fresh 
eggs. “Now we shall do. I always eat my eggs while 
they’re hot, Crawley, and I advise you to do the same.” 

To all this Mr. Crawley said very little, and he was not 
at all at home under the circumstances. Perhaps a thought 
did pass across his brain as to the difference between the 
meal which he had left on his own table and that which he 
now saw before him, and as to any cause which might ex- 
ist for such diflerence. But, if so, it was a very fleeting 

II 


1'70 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


thought, for lie had far other matter now fully occupying 
his mind. And then the breakfast was over, and in a few 
minutes the two clergymen found themselves together in 
the Parsonage study. 

“ Mr. Robarts,” began the senior, when he had seated 
himself uncomfortably on one of the ordinary chairs at the 
farther side of the well-stored library table, while Mark was 
sitting at his ease in his own arm-chair by the fire, “ I have 
called upon you on an unpleasant business.” 

Mark’s mind immediately flew off to Mr. Sowerby’s bill, 
but he could not think it possible that Mr. Crawley could 
have had any thing to do with that. 

“But, as a brother clergyman, and as one who esteems 
you much and wishes you well, I have thought myself bound 
to take this matter in hand.” 

“ What matter is it, Crawley ?” 

“ Mr. Robarts, men say that your present mode of life is 
one that is not befitting a soldier in Christ’s army.” 

“ Men say so ! what men 

“The men around you, of your own neighborhood — those 
who watch your life, and know all your doings — those who 
look to see you walking as a lamp to guide their feet, but 
find you consorting with horse-jockeys and hunters, gallop- 
ing after hounds, and taking your place among the vainest 
of worldly pleasure-seekers — those who have a right to ex- 
pect an example of good living, and who think that they do 
not see it.” 

Mr. Crawley had gone at once to the root of the matter, 
and in doing so had certainly made his own task so much 
the easier. There is nothing like going to the root of the 
matter at once when one has on hand an unpleasant piece 
of business. 

“And have such men deputed you to come here?” 

“No one has or could depute me. I have come to speak 
my own mind, not that of any other. But I refer to what 
those around you think and say, because it is to them that 
your duties are due. You owe it to those around you to 
live a godly, cleanly life, as you owe it also, in a much high- 
er way, to your Father who is in heaven. I now make bold 
to ask you whether you are doing your best to lead such a 
life as that ?” And then he remained silent, waiting for an 
answer. 

He was a singular man ; so humble and meek, so unu^ 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


in 


terably inefficient and awkward in the ordinary intercourse 
of life, but so bold and enterprising, almost eloquent, on the 
one subject which was the work of his mind. As he sat 
there, he looked into his companion’s face from out his 
sunken gray eyes with a gaze which made his victim quail ; 
and then repeated his words : “ I now make bold to ask you, 
Mr. Robarts, whether you are doing your best to lead such 
a life as may become a parish clergyman among his parish- 
ioners ?” And again he paused for an answer. 

“ There are but few of us,” said Mark, in a low tone, “ who 
could safely answer that question in the affirmative.” 

“ But are there many, think you, among us who would 
find the question so unanswerable as yourself? And even, 
Avere there many, would you, young, enterprising, and tal- 
ented as you are, be content to be numbered among them? 
Are you satisfied to be a castaway after you have taken 
upon yourself Christ’s armor? If you Avill say so, I am 
mistaken in you, and will go my Avay.” There Avas again 
a pause, and then he Avent on. “ Speak to me, my brother, 
and open your heart if it be possible.” And, rising from 
his chair, he walked across the room, and laid his hand ten- 
derly on Mark’s shoulder. 

Mark had been sitting lounging in his chair, and had at 
first, for a moment only, thought to brazen it out. But all 
idea of brazening had noAV left him. He had raised him- 
self from his comfortable ease, and was leaning forAvard 
Avith his elboAV on the table ; but noAV, Avhen he heard these 
Avords, he alloAved his head to sink upon his arms, and he 
buried his face betAveen his hands. 

“ It is a terrible falling off,” continued CraAvley : “ terri- 
ble in the fall, but doubly terrible through that difficulty 
of returning. But it can not be that it should content you 
to place yourself as one among those thoughtless sinners, 
for the crushing of Avhose sin you have been placed here 
among them. You become a hunting parson, and ride with 
a happy mind among blasphemers and mocking devils — 
you, Avhose aspirations were so high, who have spoken so 
often and so well of the duties of a minister of Christ — 
you, Avho can argue in your pride as to the petty details of 
your church as though the broad teachings of its great and 
simple lessons Avere not enough for your energies ! It can 
not be that I have had a hypocrite beside mo in all those 
eager controversies !” 


172 


FRAMLEY FARSONAGE. 


“Not a hypocrite — not a hyj)Ocrite,” said Mark, in a tone 
■which was almost reduced to sobbing. 

“ But a castaway ! Is it so that I must call you ? No, 
Mr. Robarts, not a castaway ; neither a hypocrite nor a 
castaway; but one who in walking has stumbled in the 
dark and bruised his feet among the stones. Henceforth 
let him take a lantern in his hand, and look warily to his 
path, and walk cautiously among the thorns and rocks — 
cautiously, but yet boldly, with manly courage and Chris- 
tian meekness, as all men should walk on their pilgrimage 
through this vale of tears.” And then, without giving his 
companion time to stop him, he hurried out of the room 
and from the house, and, without again seeing any others 
of the family, stalked back on his road to Hogglestock, thus 
tramping fourteen miles through the deep mud in perform- 
ance of the mission on which he had been sent. 

It was some hours before Mr. Robarts left his room. As 
soon as he found that Crawley was really gone, and that 
he sliould see him no more, he turned the lock of his door, 
and sat himself down to think over his present life. At 
about eleven his wife knocked, not knowing whether that 
other strange clergyman were there or no, for none had 
seen his departure. But Mark, answering cheerily, desired 
that he might be left to his studies. 

Let us hope that his thoughts and mental resolves were 
then of service to him. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

M R S. .P O D G E s’ BABY. 

The hunting season had now nearly passed away, and 
the great ones of the Barsetshire world were thinking of 
the glories of London. Of these glories Lady Lufton al- 
ways thought with much inquietude of mind. She would 
fain have remained throughout the whole year at Framley 
Court, did not certain grave considerations render such a 
course on her part improper in her own estimation. All 
the Lady Luftons of whom she had heard, dowager and 
anti-dowager, had always had their seasons in London, till 
old age had incapacitated them for such doings — sometimes 
for clearly long after the arrival of such period. And then 
she had an idea, perhaps not altogether erroneous, that she 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


173 


annually imported back with her into the country some- 
what of the passing civilization of the times — may we not 
say an idea that certainly was not erroneous? for how 
otherwise is it that the forms of new caps and remodeled 
shapes for women’s waists find their way down into agri- 
cultural parts, and that the rural eye learns to appreciate 
grace and beauty? There are those who think that remod- 
eled waists and new caps had better be kept to the towns ; 
but such people, if they would follow out their own argu- 
ment, Avould wish to see plowboys painted with ruddle and 
milkmaids covered wfith skins. 

For these and other reasons Lady Lufton always went 
to London in April, and staid there till the beginning of 
June. But for her this was usually a period of penance. 
In London she was no very great personage. She had 
never laid herself out for greatness of that sort, and did not 
shine as a lady-patroness or state secretary in the female 
cabinet of fashion. She was dull and listless, and without 
congenial pursuits in London, and spent her happiest mo- 
ments in reading accounts of what was being done at Fram- 
ley, and in writing orders for farther local information of 
the same kind. 

But on this occasion there was a matter of vital import 
to give an interest of its own to her visit to town. She 
was to entertain Griselda Grantly, and, as far as might be 
possible, to induce her son to remain in Griselda’s society. 
The plan of the campaign was to be as follows. Mrs. Grant- 
ly and the archdeacon were in the first place to go up to 
London for a month, taking Griselda with them ; and then, 
when they returned to Plumpstead, Griselda was to go to 
Lady Lufton. This arrangement was not at all points 
agreeable to Lady Lufton, for she knew that Mrs. Grantly 
did not turn her back on the Hartletop people quite as cor- 
dially as she should do, considering the terms of the Luf- 
ton-Grantly family treaty. But then Mrs. Grantly might 
have alleged in excuse the slow manner in which Lord Luf- 
ton proceeded in the making and declaring of his love, and 
the absolute necessity which there is for two strings to one’s 
bow Avhen one string may be in any way doubtful. Could 
it be possible that Mrs. Grantly had heard any thing of that 
unfortunate Platonic friendship Avith Lucy Robarts? 

There came a letter from Mrs. Grantly just about the end 
of March Avhich added much to Lady Lufton’s uneasiness. 


174 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


and made her more than ever anxious to be herself on the 
scene of action, and to have Griselda in her own hands. 
After some communications of mere ordinary importance 
with reference to the London world in general and the Liif- 
ton-Grantly world in particular, Mrs. Grantly wrote confi- 
dentially about her daughter : 

“ It would be useless to deny,” she said, with a mother’s 
pride and a mother’s humility, “ that she is very much ad- 
mired. She is asked out a great deal more than I can take 
her, and to houses to which I myself by no means wish to 
go. I could not refuse her as to Lady Hartletop’s first ball, 
for there will be nothing else this year like them ; and of 
course, when with you, dear Lady Lufton, that house will 
be out of the question. So indeed would it be with me, 
were I myself only concerned. The duke was there, of 
course, and I really wonder Lady Hartletop should not be 
more discreet in her own drawing-room when all the world 
is there. It is clear to me that Lord Dumbello admires 
Griselda much more than I could wish. She, dear girl, has 
such excellent sense that I do not think it likely that her 
head should be turned by it; but with how many girls 
would not the admiration of such a man be irresistible? 
The marquis, you know, is very feeble, and I am told that 
since this rage for building has come on, the Lancashire 
property is over two hundred thousand a year ! ! I do not 
think that Lord Dumbello has said much to her. Indeed, 
it seems to me that he never does say much to any one. 
But he always stands up to dance with her, and I see that 
he is uneasy and fidgety when she stands up with any other 
partner whom he could care about. It was really embar- 
rassing to see him the other night at Miss Dunstable’s, 
when Griselda was dancing with a certain friend of ours. 
But she did look very well that evening, and I have seldom 
seen her more animated !” 

All this, and a great deal more of the same sort in the 
same letter, tended to make Lady Lufton anxious to be in 
London. It was quite certain — ^there was no doubt of that, 
at any rate — that Griselda w^ould see no more of Lady Har- 
tletop’s meretricious grandeur when she had been trans- 
ferred to Lady Lufton’s guardianship. And she. Lady Luf- 
ton, did wonder that Mrs. Grantly should have taken her 
daughter to such a house. All about Lady Hartletop was 
known to all the world. It was known that it was almost 


FRAMLEY TAESONAGE. 


175 


the only house in London at which the Duke of Omnium 
Avas constantly to he met. Lady Lufton herself would al- 
most as soon think of taking a young girl to Gatherum 
Castle ; and, on these accounts, she did feel rather angry 
with her friend Mrs. Grantly. But then perhaps she did 
not sufficiently calculate that Mrs. Grantly’s letter had been 
Avritten purposely to produce such feelings — Avith the ex- 
press \iew of aAvakening her ladyship to the necessity of 
action. Indeed, in such a matter as this, Mrs. Grantly was 
a more able woman than Lady Lufton — more able to see 
her Avay and to folloAV it out. The Lufton-Grantly alliance 
Avas in her mind the best, seeing that she did not regard 
money as CA^ery thing. But, failing that, the Hartletop- 
Grantly alliance was not bad. Regarding it as a second 
string to her boAV, she thought that it was not at all bad. 

Lady Lufton’s reply was very affectionate. She declared 
hoAV happy she Avas to knoAV that Griselda Avas enjoying 
herself; she insinuated that Lord Dumbello Avas known to 
the world as a fool, and his mother as — being not a bit 
better than she ought to be ; and then she added that cir- 
cumstances Avould bring herself up to tOAvn four days soon- 
er than she had expected, and that she hoped her dear 
Griselda Avould come to her at once. Lord Lufton, she 
said, though he Avould not sleep in Bruton Street — Lady 
Lufton lived in Bruton Street — had promised to pass there 
as much of his time as his parliamentary duties Avould per- 
mit. 

Oh Lady Lufton ! Lady Lufton ! did it not occur to you, 
Avhen you Avrote those last Avords, intending that they 
should have so strong an effect on the mind of your cor- 
respondent, that you Avere telling a — tarradiddle? Was it 
not the case that you had said to your son, in your OAvn 
dear,.kind, motherly Avay, “Ludovic, we shall see something 
of you in Bruton Street this year, shall Ave not ? Griselda 
Grantly will be with me, and Ave must not let her be dull 
' — must Ave ?” And then had he not ansAvered, “ Oh, of 
course, mother,” and sauntered out of the room, not alto- 
gether graciously ? Had he, or you, said a Avord about his 
parliamentary duties? Hot a Avord. Oh, Lady Lufton, 
have you not noAV Avritten a tarradiddle to your friend ? 

In these days Ave are becoming very strict about truth 
Avith our children — terribly strict occasionally, Avhen Ave 
consider the natural Aveakness of the moral courage at the 


170 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


ages of ten, twelve, and fourteen. But I do not know tliat 
Ave are at all increasing the measure of strictness witli 
which we, grown-up people, regulate our own truth and 
falsehood. Heaven forbid that 1 should be thought to ad- 
vocate falsehood in children ; but an untruth is more par- 
donable in them than in their parents. Lady Lufton’s tar- 
radiddle was of a nature that is usually considered excus- 
able — at least with grown j^eople; but, nevertheless, she 
•would have been nearer to perfection could she liave con- 
fined herself to the truth. Let us suppose that a boy were 
to write home from school saying that another boy had 
promised to come and stay with him, that other having 
given no such promise — what a very naughty boy would 
that first boy be in the eyes of his pastors and masters ! 

That little conversation between Lord Lufton and his 
mother, in which nothing was said about his lordship’s par- 
liamentary duties, took place on the evening before he start- 
ed for London. On that occasion he certainly was not in 
his best humor, nor did he behave to his mother in his 
kindest manner. He had then left the room when she be- 
gan to talk about Miss Grantly; and once again in the 
course of the evening, when his mother, not very judicious- 
ly, said a word or two about Griselda’s beauty, he had re- 
marked that she was no conjurer, and would hardly set the 
Thames on fire. 

“If she were a conjurer !” said Lady Lufton, rather 
piqued, “ I should not now be going to take her out in Lon- 
don. I know many of those sort of girls whom you call 
conjurers; they can talk forever, and always talk either 
loudly or in a whisper. I don’t like them, and I am sure 
that you do not in your heart.” 

“ Oh, as to liking them in my heart — that is being very 
particular.” 

“ Griselda Grantly is a lady, and, as such, I shall be hap- 
py to have hei' with me in town. She is just the girl that 
Justinia will like to have with her.” 

“ Exactly,” said Lord Lufton. “ She will do exceeding- 
ly well for Justinia.” 

Now this was not good-natured on the part of Lord Luf- 
ton ; and his mother felt it the more strongly, inasmuch as 
it seemed to signify that he was setting his back up against 
the Lufton-Grantly alliance. She had been pretty sure that 
he would do so in the event of his suspecting that a plot 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Ill 

was being laid to catch him, and now it almost appeared 
that lie did suspect such a plot. Why else that sarcasm as 
to Griselda doing very well for his sister ? 

And now we must go back and describe a little scene at 
Framley which will account for his lordship’s ill humor and 
suspicions, and explain how it came to pass that he so snub- 
bed his mother. This scene took place about ten clays aft- 
er the evening on which Mrs.Robarts and Lucy were walk- 
ing together in the Parsonage garden, and during those 
ten days Lucy had not once allowed herself to bb entrap- 
ped into any special conversation with the young peer. 
She had dined at Framley Court during that interval, and 
had spent a second evening there; Lord Lufton had also 
been up at the Parsonage on three or four occasions, and 
had looked for her in her usual walks ; but, nevertheless, 
they had never come together in their old familiar way 
since the day on which Lady Lufton had hinted her fears 
to Mrs. Robarts. 

Lord Lufton had very much missed her. At first he had 
not attributed this change to a purposed scheme of action 
on the part of any one, nor, indeed, had he much thought 
about it, although he had felt himself to be annoyed. But, 
as the period fixed for his departure grew near, it did occur 
to him as very odd that he should never hear Lucy’s voice 
unless when she said a few words to his mother or to her 
sister-in-law. And then he made up his mind that he would 
speak to her before he went, and that the mystery should 
be explained to him. 

And he carried out his purpose, calling at the Parsonage 
on one special afternoon ; and it was on the evening of the 
same day that his mother sang the praises of Griselda 
Grantly so inopportunely. Robarts, he knew, was then 
absent from home, and Mrs. Robarts was with his mother 
down at the house, preparing lists of the poor people to be 
specially attended to in Lady Lufton’s approaching absence. 
Taking advantage of this, he walked boldly in through the 
Parsonage garden ; asked the gardener, with an indifferent 
voice, whether either of the ladies were at home, and then 
caught poor Lucy exactly on the door-step of the house. 

“ Were you going in or out. Miss Robarts ?” 

“Well, I was going out,” said Lucy; and she began to 
consider how best she might get quit of any prolonged en- 
counter. 

II 2 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


IVS 

“ Oh, going out, were you ? I don’t know whether I may 
offer to — ” 

“ Well, Lord Lufton, not exactly, seeing that I am about 
to pay a visit to our near neighbor, Mrs. Podgens. Per- 
haps you have no particular call toward Mrs. Podgens’ just 
at present, or to her new baby ?” 

“ And have you any very particular call that way ?” 

“ Yes, and especially to Baby Podgens. Baby Podgens 
is a real little duck — only just two days old.” And Lucy, 
as she spoke, progressed a step or two, as though she were 
determined not to remain there talking on the door-stej). 

A slight cloud came across his brow as he saw this, and 
made him resolve that she should not gain her purpose. 
He was not going to be foiled in that way by such a girl 
as Lucy Bobarts. He had come there to sj)eak to her, and 
speak to her he would. There had been enough of inti- 
macy between them to justify him in demanding, at any 
rate, as much as that. 

“ Miss Robarts,” he said, “ I am starting for London to- 
morrow, and if I do not say good-by to you now, I shall 
not be able to do so at all.” 

“ Good-by, Lord Lufton,” she said, giving him her hand, 
and smiling on him with her old genial, good-humored, 
racy smile. “And mind you bring into Parliament that 
law which you promised me for defending my young chick- 
ens.” 

He took her hand, but that was not all that he wanted. 
“Surely Mrs. Podgens and her baby can wait ten minutes. 
I shall not see you again for months to come, and yet you 
seem to begrudge me two words.” 

“ Not two hundred, if they can be of any service to you,” 
said she, walking cheerily back into the drawing-room ; 
“ only I did not think it worth while to waste your time, 
as Fanny is not here.” 

She was infinitely more collected, more master of herself 
than he was. Inwardly she did tremble at the idea of what 
was coming, but outwardly she showed no agitation — none 
as yet ; if only she could so possess herself as to refrain 
from doing so when she heard what he might have to say 
to her. 

He hardly knew what it was for the saying of which he 
had so resolutely come thither. He had by no means made 
up his mind that he loved Lucy Robarts, nor had he made 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


179 


up his mind that, loving her, he would, or that, loving her, 
he would not, make her his wife. He had never used his 
mind in the matter in any way, either for good or evil. He 
had learned to like her, and to think that she was very 
pretty. He had found out that it was very pleasant to talk 
to her ; whereas, talking to Griselda Grantly, and, indeed, 
to some other young ladies of his acquaintance, was often 
hard work. The half hours which he had spent with Lucy 
had always been satisfactory to him. He had found him- 
self to be more bright with her than with other people, 
and more apt to discuss subjects worth discussing, and 
thus it had come about that he thoroughly liked Lucy Ro- 
barts. As to whether his affection was Platonic or anti- 
Platonic he had never asked himself ; but he had spoken 
words to her, shortly before that sudden cessation of their 
intimacy, which might have been taken as anti-Platonic by 
any girl so disposed to regard them. He had not thrown 
himself at her feet, and declared himself to be devoured by 
a consuming passion, but he had touched her hand as lovers 
touch those of women whom they love ; he had had his 
confidences with her, talking to her of his own mother, of 
his sister, and of his friends, and he had called her his own 
dear friend Lucy. 

All this had been very sweet to her, but very poisonous 
also. She had declared to herself very frequently that her 
liking for this young nobleman was as purely a feeling of 
mere friendship as was that of her brother, and she had 
professed to herself that she would give the lie to the 
world’s cold sarcasms on such subjects. But she had now 
acknowledged that the sarcasms of the world on that mat- 
ter, cold though they may be, are not the less true ; and, 
having so acknowledged, she had resolved that all close al- 
liance between herself and Lord Lufton must be at an end. 
She had come to a conclusion, but he had come to none ; 
and in this frame of mind he Avas noAV there Avith the ob- 
ject of reopening that dangerous friendship Avhicli she had 
had the sense to close. 

“ And so you are going to-morrow ?” she said, as soon 
as they Avere both Avithin the draAving-room. 

“Yes; Pm off by the early train to-morroAV morning, 
and Heaven knows Avhen Ave may meet again.” 

“Next Avinter, shall A\m not?” 

“Yes, for a day or two, I suppose. I do not knoAV 


180 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


whether I shall pass another winter here. Indeed, one can 
never say where one will be.” 

“ N'o, one can’t ; such as you, at least, can not. I am not 
of a migratory tribe myself.” 

“ I wish you were.” 

“I’m not a bit obliged to you. Your nomade life does 
not agree with young ladies.” 

“I think they are taking to it pretty freely, then. We 
have unprotected young women all about the world.” ‘ 

“ And great bores you find them, I suppose ?” 

“ No ; I like it. The more we can get out of old-fashion- 
ed grooves, the better I am pleased. I should be a Radi- 
cal to-morrow — a regular man of the people — only I should 
break my mother’s heart.” 

“ Whatever you do. Lord Lufton, do not do that.” 

“That is why I have liked you so much,” he contin- 
ued, “ because you get out of the grooves.” 

“Do I?” 

“ Yes ; and go along by yourself, guiding your own foot- 
steps ; not carried hither and thither, just as your grand- 
mother’s old tramway may chance to take you.” 

“Do you know I have a strong idea that my grand- 
mother’s old tramway will be the safest and the best, after 
all ?• I have not left it very far, and I certainly mean to 
go back to it.” 

“ That’s impossible ! An army of old women, with coils 
of ropes made out of time-honored prejudices, could not 
drag you back.” 

“No, Lord Lufton, that is true. But one — ” and then 
she stopped herself. She could not tell him that one lov- 
ing mother, anxious for her only son, had sufficed to do it. 
She could not explain to him that this departure from the 
established tramway had already broken her own rest, and 
turned her peaceful, happy life into a grievous battle. 

“ I know that you are trying to go back,” he said. “Do 
you think that I have eyes and can not see ? Come, Lucy, 
you and I have been friends, and we must not part in this 
way. My mother is a paragon among women. I say it 
in earnest — a paragon among women ; and her love for me 
is the perfection of motherly love.” 

“ It is, it is ; and I am so glad that you acknowledge 
it.” 

“I shoixld be worse than a brute did I not do so; but. 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


181 


nevertheless, I can not allow her to lead me in all things. 
Were I to do so, 1 should cease to he a man.” 

“ Where can you find any one who will counsel you so 
truly ?” 

“ But, nevertheless, I must rule myself. I do not know 
whether my suspicions may he perfectly just, but I fancy 
that she has created this estrangement between you and 
me. Has it not been so ?” 

“ Certainly not by speaking to me,” said Lucy, blushing 
ruby-red through every vein of her deep-tinted face. But, 
though she could not command her blood, her voice was 
still under her control — her voice and her manner. 

“But has she not done so? You, I know, will tell me 
nothing but the truth.” 

“ I will tell you nothing on this matter. Lord Lufton, 
whether true or false. It is a subject on which it does not 
concern me to speak.” 

“ Ah ! I understand,” he said ; and, rising from his chair, 
he stood against the chimney-piece with his back to the 
fire. “ She can not leave me alone to choose for myself my 
own friends, and my own — ” but he did not fill up the 
void. 

“ But why tell me this. Lord Lufton ?” 

“No, I am not to choose my own friends, though they 
be among the best and purest of God’s creatures. Lucy, 
I can not think that you have ceased to have a regard for 
me. That you had a regard for me I am sure.” 

She felt that it was almost unmanly of him thus to seek 
her out, and hunt her down, and then throw upon her the 
whole weight of the explanation that his coming thither 
made necessary. But, nevertheless, the truth must be told, 
and with God’s help she would find strength for the telling 
of it. 

“Yes, Lord Lufton, I had a regard for you — and have. 
By that word you mean something more than the custom- 
ary feeling of acquaintance which may ordinarily prevail 
between a gentleman and lady of difterent families, who 
have known each other so short a time as we have done?” 

“Yes, something much more,” said he, with energy. 

“Well, I will not define the much — something closer 
than that.” 

“Yes, and warmer, and dearer, and more worthy of two 
human creatures who value each other’s minds and hearts.” 


182 


FEAMLET PAESONAGE. 


“ Some such closer regard I have felt for you — very fool- 
ishly. Stop! You have made me speak, and do not in- 
terrupt me now. Does not your conscience tell you that 
in doing so I have unwisely deserted those wise old grand- 
mother’s tramways of Avhich you spoke just now ? It has 
been pleasant to me to do so. I have liked the feeling of 
independence with which I have thought that I might in- 
dulge in an open friendship with such as you are. And your 
rank, so different from my own, has doubtless made this 
more attractive.” 

“ ilonsense.” 

“ Ah ! but it has. I know it now. But what will the 
world say of me as to such an alliance ?” 

“ The world !” 

“Yes, the world ! I am not such a philosopher as to dis- 
regard it, though you may afford to do so. The world will 
say that I, the parson’s sister, set my cap at the young lord, 
and that the young lord had made a fool. of me.” 

“ The world shall say no such thing !” said Lord Lufton, 
very imperiously. 

“Ah ! but it will. You can no more stop it than King 
Canute could the waters. Your mother has interfered wise- 
ly to spare me from this ; and the only favor that I can ask 
you is that you wdll spare me also.” And then she got up 
as though she intended at once to walk forth to her visit 
to Mrs. Podgens’ baby. 

“ Stop, Lucy !” he said, putting himself between her and 
the door. 

“ It must not be Lucy any longer. Lord Lufton ; I was 
madly foolish when I first allowed it.” 

“ By heavens ! but it shall be Lucy — Lucy before all the 
world. My Lucy, my own Lucy — my heart’s best friend 
and chosen love. Lucy, there is my hand. How long you 
may have had my heart it matters not to say now.” 

The game was at her feet now, and no doubt she felt her 
triumph. Her ready wit and speaking lip, not her beauty, 
had brought him to her side, and now he was forced to ac- 
knowledge that her power over him had been supreme. 
Sooner than leave her he would risk all. She did feel her 
triumph, but there was nothing in her face to tell him that 
she did so. 

As to what she would now do she did not for a moment 
doubt. He had been precipitated into the declaration he 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


183 


had made, not by his love, but by his embarrassment. She 
had thrown in his teeth the injury which he had done her, 
and he had then been moved by his generosity to repair 
that injury by the noblest sacrifice which he could make. 
But Lucy Robarts was not the girl to accept a sacrifice. 

He had stepped forward as though he were going to 
clasp her round the waist, but she receded, and got beyond 
the reach of his hand. “ Lord Lufton !” she said, “ when 
you are more cool you will know that this is wrong. The 
best thing for both of us now is to part.” 

“ Not the best thing, but the very worst, till we perfectly 
understand each other.” 

“ Then perfectly understand me, that I can not be your 
wife.” 

“ Lucy ! do you mean that you can not learn to love me ?” 

“ I mean that I shall not try. Do not persevere in this, 
or yon will have to hate yourself for your own folly.” 

“ But I will persevere till you accept my love, or say, 
with your hand on your heart, that you can not and will 
not love me.” 

“ Then I must beg you to let me go ;” and, having so 
said, she paused while he walked once or twice hurriedly 
up and down the room. “ And, Lord Lufton,” she contin- 
ued, “ if you will leave me now, the words that you have 
spoken shall be as though they had never been uttered.” 

“I care not who knows that they have been uttered. 
The sooner that they are known to all the world, the bet- 
ter I shall be pleased, unless, indeed — ” 

“ Think of your mother. Lord Lufton.” 

“ What can I do better than give her as a daughter the 
best and sweetest girl I have ever met ? When my mother 
really knows you, she will love you as I do. Lucy, say one 
word to me of comfort.” 

“I will say no word to you that shall injure your future 
comfort. It is impossible that I should be your wife.” 

“ Do you mean that you can not love me ?” 

“You have no right to press me any farther,” she said, 
and sat down upon the sofa, with an angry frown upon her 
forehead. 

“By heavens!” he said, “I will take no such answer 
from you till you put your hand upon your heart and say 
that you can not love me.” 

“ Oh, why should you press me so. Lord Lufton ?” 


184 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Why ! because my happiness depends upon it ; because 
it behooves me to know the very truth. It has come to 
this, that I love you with my whole heart, and I must know 
how your heart stands toward me.” 

She had now again risen from the sofa, and was looking 
steadily in his face. 

“ Lord Lufton,” she said, “ I can not love you,” and as 
she spoke she did put her hand, as he had desired, ujDon her 
heart. 

“ Then God help me, for I am very wretched. Good-by, 
Lucy,” and he stretched out *his hand to her. 

“ Good-by, my lord. !Do not be angry with me.” 

“No, no, no!” and, without farther speech, he left the 
room and the house, and hurried home. It was hardly sur- 
prising that he should that evening tell his mother that 
Griselda Grantly would be a companion sufficiently good 
for his sister. He wanted no such companion. 

And when he was well gone — absolutely out of sight 
from the window — ^Lucy walked steadily up to her room, 
locked the door, and then threw herself on the bed. Why 
—oh ! why had she told such a falsehood ? Could any 
thing justify her in a lie? Was it not a lie, knowing as 
she did that she loved him with all her loving heart ? 

But then his mother ! and the sneers of the world, which 
would have declared that she had set her trap, and caught 
the foolish young lord 1 Her pride would not have sub- 
mitted to that. Strong as her love was, yet her pride was 
perhaps stronger — stronger, at any rate, during that inter- 
view. 

But how was she to forgive herself the falsehood she had 
told? 


CHAPTER XVH. 

MRS. proudie’s conversazione. 

It was grievous to think of the mischief and danger into 
which Griselda Grantly was brought by the worldliness of 
her mother in those few weeks previous to Lady Lufton’s 
arrival in town — very grievous, at least, to her ladyship, as 
from time to time she heard of what was done in London. 
Lady Hartletop’s was not the only objectionable house at 
which Griselda was allowed to reap fresh fashionable lau- 


I 









I' 

vt 




PEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


187 


rels. It had been stated openly in the Morning Post that 
that young lady had been the most admired among the 
beautiful at one of Miss Dunstable’s celebrated soirees, and 
then she was heard of as gracing the drawing-room at Mrs. 
Proudie’s conversazione. 

Of Miss Dunstable herself Lady Lufton was not able 
openly to allege any evil. She was acquainted, Lady Luf- 
ton knew, with very many people of the right sort, and was 
the dear friend of Lady Lufton’s highly conservative and 
not very distant neighbors, the Greshams. But then she 
was also acquainted with so many people of the bad sort. 
Indeed, she was intimate with every body, from the Duke 
of Omnium to old DoAvager Lady Goodygaffer, Avho had 
represented all the cardinal virtues for the last quarter of 
a century. She smiled with equal sweetness on treacle and 
on brimstone; was quite at home at Exeter Hall, having 
been consulted — so the world said, probably not with ex- 
act truth — as to the selection of more than one disagree-' 
ably LoAv-Church bishop ; and was not less frequent in her 
attendance at the ecclesiastical doings of a certain terrible 
prelate in the midland counties, Avho Avas supposed to favor 
stoles and vespers, and to have no proper Protestant hatred \ 
for auricular confession and fish on Fridays. Lady Lufton, 
who Avas very stanch, did not like this, and would say of 
Miss Dunstable that it Avas impossible to serve both God 
and JMammon. 

But Mrs. Proudie was much more objectionable to her. 
Seeing hoAV sharp was the feud between the Proudies and 
the Grantlys down in Barsetshire, hoAV absolutely unable 
they had ahvays been to carry a decent face toward each 
other in Church matters, hoAV they headed two parties in 
the diocese, Avhich Avere, Avhen brought together, as oil and 
vinegar, in which battles the whole Lufton influence had 
alAvays been brought to bear on the Grantly side — seeing 
all this, I say. Lady Lufton was surprised to hear that Gri- 
selda had been taken to Mrs. Proudie’s evening exhibition. 

“ Had the archdeacon been consulted about it,” she said to 
herself, “this would neA^er have happened.” But there she 
Avas Avrong, for in matters concerning his daughter’s intro- 
duction to the Avorld the archdeacon never interfered. 

On the Avhole, I am inclined to think that Mrs. Grantly 
understood the Avorld better than did Lady Lufton. In 
her heart of hearts Mrs. Grantly hated Mrs. Proudie — that 


188 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


is, with that sort of liatred one Christian lady allows her- 
self to feel toward another. Of course Mrs. Grantly for- 
gave Mrs. Proudie all her offenses, and wished her well, and 
was at peace with her, in the Christian sense of the word, 
as with all other women. But under this forbearance and 
meekness, and perhaps, we may say, wholly unconnected 
with it, there was certainly a current of antagonistic feel- 
ing which, in the ordinary unconsidered language of every 
day, men and women do call hatred. This raged and was 
strong throughout the whole year in Barsetshire, before the 
eyes of all mankind. But, nevertheless, Mrs. Grantly took 
Griselda to Mrs. Proudie’s evening parties in London. 

Ill these days Mrs. Proudie considered herself to be by 
no means the least among bishops’ wives. She had opened 
the season this year in a new house in Gloucester Place, at 
which the reception-rooms, at any rate, were all that a lady 
bishop could desire. Here she had a front drawing-room 
of very noble dimensions ; a second drawing-room rather 
noble also, though it had lost one of its back corners awk- 
wardly enough, apparently in a jostle with the neighboring 
house ; and then there was a third — shall we say drawing- 
room or closet ? — in which Mrs. Proudie delighted to be 
seen sitting, in order that the world might know that there 
was a third room ; altogether a noble suite, as Mrs. Proudie 
herself said in confidence to more than one clergyman’s wife 
from Barsetshire. “A noble suite, indeed, Mrs. Proudie !” 
the clergymen’s wives from Barsetshire would usually an- 
swer. 

For some time Mrs. Proudie was much at a loss to know 
by what sort of party or entertainment she would make 
herself famous. Balls and suppers were of course out of 
the question. She did not object to her daughters dancing 
all night at other houses— at least, of late she had not ob- 
jected, for the fashionable world required it, and the young 
ladies had perhaps a will of their own — ^but dancing at her 
house absolutely under the shade of the bishop’s apron — 
would be a sin and a scandal. And then as to suppers — 
of all modes in which one may extend one’s hospitality to 
a large acquaintance, they are the most costly. 

^^^It is horrid to think that we should go out among our 
mends for the mere sake of eating and drinking,” Mrs. 
Proudie would say to the clergymen’s wives from Barset- 
shirc. “ It shows sucli a sensual propensity.” 


FIIA.MLEY PARSONAGE. 


189 


“Indeed it does, Mrs. Proudie ; and is so vulgar too!” 
those ladies would reply. 

But th^ elder among them would remember with regret 
the unsparing, open-handed hospitality of Barchester palace 
in the good old days of Bishop Grantly — God rest his soul ! 
One old vicar’s wife there was whose answer had not been 
so courteous : 

“ When we are hungry, Mrs. Proudie,” she had said, 
“ we do all have sensual propensities.” 

“ It would be much better, Mrs. Athill, if the world would 
provide for all that at home,” Mrs. Proudie had rapidly re- 
plied ; with which opinion I must here profess that I can 
not by any means bring myself to coincide. 

But a conversazione would give play to no sensual pro- 
pensity, nor occasion that intolerable expense which the 
gratification of sensual propensities too often produces. 
Mrs. Proudie felt that the word was not all that she could 
have desired. It was a little faded by old use and present 
oblivion, and seemed to address itself to that portion of the 
London world that is considered blue, rather than fashion- 
able. But, nevertheless, there was a spirituality about it 
which suited her, and one may also say an economy. And 
then, as regarded fashion, it might, perhaps, not be beyond 
the power of a Mrs. Proudie to regild the word with a 
newly-burnished gilding. Some leading person must pro- 
duce fashion at first hand, and why not Mrs. Proudie ? 

Her plan was to set the people by the ears talking, if 
talk they would, or to induce them to show themselves 
there inert, if no more could be got from them. To ac- 
commodate with chairs and sofas as many as the furniture 
of her noble suite of rooms would allow, especially with 
the two chairs and padded bench against the wall in the 
back closet — the small inner drawing-room, as she Avould 
call it to -the clergymen’s wives from Barsetshire — and to 
let the others stand about upright, or “ group themselves,” 
as she described it. Then four times during the two hours’ 
period of her conversazione tea and cake was to be handed 
round on salvers. It is astonishing how far a very little 
cake will go in this way, particularly if administered toler- 
ably early after dinner. The men can’t eat it, and the 
women, liaving no plates and no table, are obliged to ab- 
stain. Mrs. Jones knows that she can not hold a piece of 
crumbly cake in her hand till it be consumed without do- 


190 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


ing serious injury to her best dress. When Mrs. Proudie, 
with her weekly books before her, looked into the financial 
upshot of her conversazione, her conscience told her that 
she had done the right thing. 

Going out to tea is not a bad thing, if one can contrive 
to dine early, and then be allowed to sit round a big table 
with a tea-urn in the middle. I would, however, suggest 
that breakfast-cups should always be provided for the gen- 
tlemen. And then with pleasant neighbors — or more es- 
pecially with a pleasant neighbor, the afiair is not, accord- 
ing to my taste, by any means the worst phase of society. 
But I do dislike that handing round, unless it be of a sub- 
sidiary thimbleful when the business of the social inter- 
course has been dinner. 

And, indeed, this handing round has become a vulgar 
and an intolerable nuisance among us second-class gentry 
with our eight hundred a year — there or thereabouts — 
doubly intolerable as being destructive of our natural com- 
forts, and a wretchedly vulgar aping of men with large in- 
comes. The Duke of Omnium and Lady Hartletop are un- 
doubtedly wise to have every thing handed round. Friends 
of mine Avho occasionally dine at such houses tell me that 
they get their wine quite as quickly as they can drink it, 
that their mutton is brought to them without delay, and 
that the potato-bearer follows quick upon the heels of car- 
nifer. Nothing can be more comfortable, and we may no 
doubt acknowledge that these firSt-class grandees do under- 
stand their material comforts. But we of the eight hundred 
can no more come up to them in this than we can in their 
opera-boxeS' and equipages. May I not say that the usual 
tether of this class, in the way of carnifers, cup-bearers, and 
the rest, does not reach beyond neat-handed Phyllis and the 
green-grocer ? and that Phillis, neat-handed as she probably 
is, and the green-grocer, though he be ever so active, can 
not administer a dinner to twelve people who are prohibit- 
ed by a Medo-Persian law from all self-administration what- 
ever ? And may I not farther say that the lamentable con- 
sequence to us eight hundreders dining out among each 
other is this, that we too often get no dinner at all. Phyl- 
lis, with the potatoes, can not reach us till our mutton 
is devoured, or in a lukewarm state, past our power of 
managing ; and Ganymede, the green-grocer, though we 
admire the skill of his neck-tie and the whiteness of 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


191 


his unexceptionable gloves, fails to keep us going in sher- 

ly* 

Seeing a lady the other day in this strait, left without the 
small modicum of stimulus which was no doubt necessary 
for her good digestion, I ventured to ask her to drink wine 
with me. But when I bowed my head at her, she looked 
at me with all her eyes, struck with amazement. Had I 
suggested that she should join me in a wild Indian war- 
dance, with nothing on but my paint, her face could not 
have shown greater astonishment. And yet I should have 
thought she might have remembered the days when Chris- 
tian men and women used to drink wine with each other. 

God be with the good old days when I could hobnob 
with my friend over the table as often as I was inclined to 
lift my glass to my lips, and make a long arm for a hot po- 
tato whenever the exigencies of my plate required it. 

I think it may be laid down as a rule in affairs of hospital- 
ity that whatever extra luxury or grandeur we introduce 
at our tables when guests are with us, should be introduced 
for the advantage of the guest, and not for our own. If, 
for instance, our dinner be served in a manner different from 
that usual to us, it should be so served in order that our 
friends may with more satisfaction eat our repast than our 
every-day practice Would produce on them. But the change 
should by no means be made to their material detriment in 
order that our fashion may be acknowledged. Again, if I 
decorate my sideboard and table, wishing that the eyes of 
my visitors may rest on that which is elegant and pleasing 
to the sight, I act in that matter with a becoming sense of 
hospitality; but if my object be to kill Mrs. Jones with 
envy at the sight of all my silver trinkets, I am a mean- 
spirited fellow. This, in a broad way, will be acknowl- 
edged ; but if we would bear in mind the same idea at all 
times — on occasions when the way, perhaps, may not be so 
broad, when more thinking may be required to ascertain 
what is true hospitality, I think we of the eight hundred 
would make a greater advance toward really entertaining 
our own friends than by any rearrangement of the actual 
meats and dishes which we set before them. 

Knowing, as we do, that the terms of the Lufton-Grantly 
alliance had been so solemnly ratified between the two 
mothers, it is perhaps hardly open to us to suppose that 
Mrs. Grantly was induced to take her daughter to Mrs. 


192 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Pl*oudie’s by any knowledge which she may have acquired 
that Lord Dumbello had i^romised to grace the bishop’s 
assembly. It is certainly the fact that high contracting 
parties do sometimes allow themselves a latitude which 
would be considered dishonest by contractors of a lower 
sort, and it may be possible that the archdeacon’s wife did 
think of that second string with which her bow was furnish- 
ed. Be that as it may, Lord Dumbello was at Mrs.Proud- 
ie’s, and it did so come to pass that Griselda was seated at 
the corner of a sofa close to Avhich was a vacant space in 
which his lordship could — “ group himself.” 

They had not been long there before Lord Dumbello did 
group himself. “ Fine day,” he said, coming up and occu- 
pying the vacant position by Miss Grantly’s elbow. 

“We Avere driving to-day, and Ave thought it rather 
cold,” said Griselda. 

“ Deuced cold,” said Lord Dumbello ; and then he ad- 
justed his Avhite cravat and touched up his Avhiskers. HaA^- 
ing got so far, he did not proceed to any other immediate 
conversational efforts ; nor did Griselda. But he grouped 
himself again as became a marquis, and gave very intense 
satisfiiction to Mrs. Proudie. 

“This is so kind of you. Lord Dumbello,” said that lady, 
coming up to him and shaking his hand Avarmly — “ so Amry 
kind of you, to come to my poor little tea-party.” 

“ Uncommon pleasant, I call it,” said his lordship. “ I 
like this sort of thing — no trouble, you knoAV.” 

“ Uo, that is the charm of it ; isn’t it ? no trouble, or fuss, 
or parade. That’s Avhat I always say. According to my 
ideas, society consists in giving people facility for an inter- 
change of thoughts — Avhat Ave call conAmrsation.” 

“ Aw, yes, exactly.” 

“Uot in eating and drinking together — eh. Lord Dum- 
bello ? And yet the practice of our lives Avould seem to 
shoAV that the indulgence of those animal propensities can 
alone suffice to bring people together. The Avorld, in this, 
has surely made a great mistake.” 

“ I like a good dinner all the same,” said Lord Dumbello. 

“ Oh, yes, of course — of course. I am by no means one 
of those Avho would pretend to preach that our tastes haAm 
not been given to us for our enjoyment. Why should 
things be nice if Ave are not to like them ?” 

“ A man Avho can really give a good dinner has learned 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 193 

a great deal,” said Lord Dumbello, with unusual anima- 
tion. 

“ An immense deal. It is quite an art in itself, and one 
which I, at any rate, by no means despise. But we can 
not always be eating — can we ?” 

“No,” said Lord Dumbello, “not always.” And he 
looked as though he lamented that his powers should be 
so circumscribed. 

And then Mrs. Proudie passed on to Mrs. Grantly. The 
two ladies were quite friendly in London, though down in 
their own neighborhood they waged a war so internecine 
in its nature. But, nevertheless, Mrs. Proudie’s manner 
might have showed to a very close observer that she knew 
the difference between a bishop and an archdeacon. “ I 
am so delighted to see you,” said she. “No, don’t mind 
moving; I won’t sit down just at present. But why didn’t 
the archdeacon come ?” 

“ It was quite impossible — it was, indeed,” said Mrs. 
Grantly. “ The archdeacon never has a moment in Lon- 
don that he can call his own.” 

“You don’t stay up very long, I believe?” 

“ A good deal longer than we either of us like, I can as- 
sure you. London life is a perfect nuisance to me.” 

“ But people in a certain position must go through with 
it, you know,” said Mrs. Proudie. “ The bishop, for in- 
stance, must attend the house.” 

“ Must he ?” asked Mrs. Grantly, as though she were not 
at all well informed with reference to this branch of a 
bishop’s business. “ I am very glad that archdeacons are 
under no such liability.” 

“ Oh no, there’s nothing of that sort,” said Mrs. Proudie, 
very seriously. “ But how uncommonly well Miss Grantly 
is looking ! I do hear that she has quite been admired.” 

This phrase certainly was a little hard for the mother to 
bear. All the world had acknowledged, so Mrs. Grantly 
had taught herself to believe, that Griselda was undoubted- 
ly the beauty of the season. Marquises and lords were 
already contending for her smiles, and paragraphs had been 
written in newspapers as to her profile. It was too hard 
to be told, after that, that her daughter had been “ quite 
admired.” Such a phrase might suit a pretty little red- 
cheeked milkmaid of a girl. 

“ She can not, of course, come near your girls in that re- 


194 


FBAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


spect,” said Mrs. Grantly, very quietly. Now the Miss 
Prouclies had not elicited from the faishionable world any 
very loud encomiums on their beauty. Their mother felt 
the taunt in its fullest force, but she would not essay to do 
battle on the present arena. She jotted down the item in 
her mind, and kept it over for Barchester and the chapter. 
Such debts as those she usually paid on some day, if the 
means of doing so were at all within her power. 

“ But there is Miss Dunstable, I declare,” she said, seeing 
that that lady had entered the room ; and away went Mrs. 
Proudie to 'welcome her distinguished guest. 

“ And so this is a conversazione, is it ?” said that lady, 
speaking, as usual, not in a suppressed voice. “ Well, I de- 
clare, it’s very nice. It means conversation, don’t it, Mrs. 
Proudie ?” 

“Ha! ha! ha! Miss Dunstable. There is nobody like 
you, I declare.” 

“ Well, but don’t it ? and tea and cake ? and then, when 
we’re tired of talking, we go away — isn’t that it ?” 

“ But you must not be tired for these three hours yet.” 

“ Oh, I am never tired of talking ; all the world knows 
that. How do, bishop ? A very nice sort of thing this 
conversazione, isn’t it, now?” 

The bishop rubbed his hands together and smiled, and 
said that he thought it was rather nice. 

“ Mrs. Proudie is so fortunate in all her little arrange- 
ments,” said Miss Dunstable. 

“Yes, yes,” said the bishop. “I think she is haj)py in 
these matters. I do flatter myself that she is so. Of 
course. Miss Dunstable, you are accustomed to things on a 
much grander scale.” 

“I! Lord bless you, no! Nobody hates grandeur so 
much as I do. Of course, I must do as I .am told. I must 
i live in a big house, and have three footmen six feet high. 
'T must have a coachman with a top-heavy Avig, and horses 
so big that they frighten hie. If I did not^ I should be 
made out a lunatic, and declared unable to manage my own 
aflairs. But as for grandeur, I hate it. I certainly think 
that I shall have some of these conversaziones. I Avonder 
Avhether Mrs. Proudie would come and put me up to a 
wrinkle or tAVO.” 

The bishop again rubbed his hands, and said that he was 
sure she Avould. He never felt quite at his ease with Miss 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


195 


Dunstable, as he rarely could ascertain whether or no she 
was earnest in what she was saying. So he trotted off, 
muttering some excuse as he w^ent, and Miss Dunstable 
chuckled with an inward chuckle at his too evident bewil- 
derment. Miss Dunstable was by nature kind, generous, 
and open-hearted ; but she W'as living now very much with 
people on whom kindness, generosity, and open-hearted- 
ness were thrown away. She was clever also, and could 
be sarcastic ; and she found that those qualities told better 
in the world around her than generosity and an open heart. 
And so she went on from month to month, and year to 
year, not progressing in a good spirit as she might have 
done, but still carrying within her bosom a warm affection 
for those she could really love. And she knew that she 
'was hardly living as she should live — that the wealth which 
she affected to despise was eating into the soundness of 
her character, not by its splendor, but by the style of life 
which it had seemed to produce as a necessity. She knew 
that she w^as gradually becoming irreverent, scornful, and 
prone to ridicule ; but yet, knowing this and hating it, she 
hardly knew how to break from it. 

She had seen so much of the blacker side of human na- 
ture that blackness no longer startled her as it should do. 
She had been the prize at which so many ruined spend- 
thrifts had aimed — so many pirates had endeavored to run 
her down while sailing in the open waters of life, that she 
liad ceased to regard such attempts on her money-bags as 
unmanly or overcovetous. She was content to fight her 
own battle with her own weapons, feeling secure in her 
own strength of purpose and strength of wit. 

Some few friends she had -srhoin she really loved — among 
whom her inner self could come out and speak boldly what 
it had to say with its own true voice. And the woman 
w’ho thus so spoke was so very different from that Miss 
Dunstable whom Mrs. Proudie courted, and the Duke of 
Omnium feted, and Mrs. Harold Smith claimed as her bos- 
om friend. If only she could find among such one special 
companion on whom her heart might rest, who would help 
her to bear the heavy burdens of her world ! But where 
was she to find such a friend ? she, with her keen wit, her 
untold money, and loud laughing voice. Every thing alDout 
her was calculated to attract those whom she could not 
value, and to scare from her the sort of friend to whom she 
would fain have linked her lot. 


196 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


And then she met Mrs. Harold Smith, who had taken 
Mrs. Proudie’s noble suite of rooms in her tour for the even- 
ing, and was devoting to them a period of tAventy minutes. 
“And so I may congratulate you,” Miss Dunstable said 
eagerly to her friend. 

“ No, in mercy’s name, do no such thing, or you may too 
probably have to uncongratulate me again — and that will 
be so unpleasant.” 

“ But they told me that Lord Brock had sent for him 
yesterday.” Now at this period Lord Brock w’as prime 
minister. 

“ So he did, and Harold Avas Avith him backAvard and for- 
Avard all the day. But he can’t shut his eyes and open his 
mouth, and see Avhat God Avill send him, as a wise and pru- 
dent man should do. He is ahvays for bargaining, and no 
jArime minister likes that.” 

“ I Avould not be in his shoes if, after all, he has to come 
home and say that the bargain is off.” 

“ Ha t ha ! ha ! Well, I should not take it very quietly. 
But what can Ave poor women do, you knoAV ? When it 
is settled, my dear, Pll send you a line at once.” And then 
Mrs. Harold Smith finished her course round the rooms, 
and regained her carriage within the tAventy minutes. 

“ Beautiful profile, has she not ?” said Miss Dunstable, 
somewhat later in the evening, to Mrs. Proudie. Of course, 
the profile spoken of belonged to Miss Grantly. 

“ Yes, it is beautiful, certainly,” said Mrs. Proudie. “The 
pity is that it means nothing.” 

“ The gentlemen seem to think that it means a good deal.” 

“ I am not sure of that. She has no conversation, you 
see — not a Avord. She has been sitting there with Lord 
Dumbello at her elbow for the last hour, and yet she has 
hardly opened her mouth three times.” 

“ But, my dear Mrs. Proudie, who on earth could talk to 
Lord Dumbello ?” 

Mrs. Proudie thought that her OAvn daughter Olivia 
would undoubtedly be able to do so, if only she could get 
the opportunity. But then Olivia had so much conversa- 
tion. 

And while the tAvo ladies were yet looking at the youth- 
ful pair. Lord Dumbello did speak again. “ I think I have 
had enough of this now,” said he, addressing himself to 
Griselda. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


197 


“ I su23pose you have other engagements,” said she. 

“ Oh yes ; and I believe I shall go to Lady Clantel- 
hrocks.” And then he took his departure. No other word 
was spoken that evening between him and Miss Grantly 
beyond those given in this chronicle, and yet the world de- 
clared that he and that young lady had ^Dassed the evening 
in so close a flirtation as to make the matter more than or- 
dinarily particular ; and Mrs. Grantly, as she was driven 
home to her lodgings, began to have doubts in her mind 
whether it would be wise to discountenance so great an al- 
liance as that which the head of the great Hartletop fam- 
ily now seemed so desirous to establish. The prudent 
mother had not yet sj^oken a word to her daughter on these 
subjects, but it might soon become necessary to do so. It 
was all very well for Lady Lufton to hurry up to town, 
but of what service would that be if Lord Lufton w^ere not 
to bo found in Bruton Street ? 


CHAPTER XYIII. 

THE NEW minister’s PATRONAGE. 

At that time, just as Lady Lufton was about to leave 
Framley for London, Mark Robarts received a pressing 
letter, inviting him also to go up to the metropolis for a 
day or two — not for jfleasure, but on business. The letter 
was from his indefatigable friend Sowerby. 

“ My dear Robarts,” the letter ran : 

“ I have just heard that poor little Burslem, the Barsetshire preben- 
dary, is dead. We must all die some day, you know — as you have told 
your parishioners from the Framley pulpit more than once, no doubt. 
The stall must be filled up, and why should not you have it as well as 
another? It is six hundred a year and a house. Little Burslem had 
nine, but the good old times are gone. Whether the house is letable or 
not under the present ecclesiastical regime, I do not know. It used to 
be so, for I remember Mrs. Wiggins, the tallow-chandler’s widow, living 
in old Stanhope’s house. 

“Harold Smith has just joined the government as Lord Petty Bag, 
and could, I think, at the present moment, get this for asking. He can 
not well refuse me, and, if you will say the word, I will speak to him. You 
had better come up yourself ; but say the word ‘ Yes’ or ‘ No’ by the wires. 

“If you say ‘ Yes,’ as of course you will, do not fail to come up. You 
will fin'd me at the ‘Travelers,’ or at the House. The stall will just suit 
you — will give you no trouble, improve your position, and give some 
little assistance toward bed and board, and rack and manger. 

“ Yours ever faithfully, N. Sowerby. 


198 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Singularly enough, I hear that your brother is private secretary to 
the new Lord Petty Bag. I am told that his chief duty will consist in 
desiring the servants to call my sister’s carriage. I have only seen 
Harold once since he accepted oflSce, but my Lady Petty Bag says that 
he has certainly grown an inch since that occurrence.” 

This was certainly very good-natured on the part of Mr. 
Sowerby, and showed that he had a feeling within his 
bosom that he owed something to his friend the parson for 
the injury he had done him. And such was in truth the 
case. A more reckless being than the member for West 
Barsetshire could not exist. He was reckless for himself, 
and reckless for all others with whom he might be con- 
cerned. He could ruin his friends with as little remorse as 
he had ruined himself. All was fair game that came in the 
w^ay of his net. But, nevertheless, he was good-natured, 
and willing to move heaven and earth to do a friend a good 
turn, if it came in his way to do so. 

He did really love Mark Robarts as much as it was given 
him to love any among his acquaintance. He knew that 
he had already done him an almost irreparable injury, and 
might very probably injure him still deeper before he had 
done with him. That he would undoubtedly do so, if it 
came in his way, was very certain. But then, if it also came 
in his way to repay his friend by any side blow, he would 
also undoubtedly do that. Such an occasion had now come, 
and he had desired his sister to give the new Lord Petty 
Bag no rest till he should have promised to use all his in- 
fluence in getting the vacant prebend for Mark Robarts. 

This letter of Sowerby’s Mark immediately showed to 
his wife. How lucky, thought he to himself, that not a 
word was said in it about those accursed money transac- 
tions ! Had he understood Sowerby better, he would have 
known that that gentleman never said any thing about 
money transactions until it became absolutely necessary. 
“ I know you don’t like Mr. Sowerby,” he said, “ but you 
must own that this is very good-natured.” 

“ It is the character I hear of him that I don’t like,” said 
Mrs. Robarts. 

“ But what shall I do now, Fanny ? As he says, why 
should not I have the stall as well as another ?” 

“ I suppose it would not interfere with your parish ?” 
she asked. 

“Not in the least, at the distance at which we arc. I 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


199 


did think of giving up old Jones; but if I take this, of 
course I must keep a curate.” 

His wife could not find it in her heart to dissuade him 
from accepting promotion when it came in his way — what 
vicar’s wife -would have so persuaded her husband ? But 
jx't she did not altogether like it. She feared that Greek 
from Chaldicotes, even when he came with the present of 
a prebendal stall in his hands. And then what would Lady 
Lufton say ? 

“And do you think that you must go up to London, 
Mark ?” 

“ Oh, certainly ; that is, if I intend to accei^t Harold 
Smith’s kind ofiices in the matter.” 

“ I suppose it will be better to accept them,” said Fanny, 
feeling perhaps that it would be useless in her to hope that 
they should not be accepted. 

“Prebendal stalls, Fanny, don’t generally go begging 
long among parish clergymen. How could I reconcile it 
to the duty I owe to my children to refuse such an increase 
to my income ?” And so it was settled that he should at 
once drive to Silverbridge, and send off a message by tele- 
graph, and that he should himself proceed to London on 
the following day. “ But you must see Lady Lufton first, 
of course,” said Fanny, as soon as all this was settled. 

Mark would have avoided this if he could have decently 
done so, but he felt that it would be impolitic as well as in- 
decent. And why should he be afraid to tell Lady Lufton 
that he hoped to receive this piece of promotion from the 
present government ? There was nothing disgraceful in a 
clergyman becoming a prebendary at Barchester. Lady 
Lufton herself had always been very civil to the preben- 
daries, and especially to little Dr. Burslem, the meagre 
little man who had just now paid the debt of nature. ^ She 
had always been very fond of the chapter, and her original 
dislike to Bishop Proudie had been chiefly founded on his 
interference with the cathedral clergy — on his interference, 
or on that of his wife or chajfiain. Considering these 
things, Mark Robarts tried to make himself believe that 
Lady Lufton would be delighted at his good fortune. But 
yet he did not believe it. She, at any rate, would revolt 
from the gift of the Greek of Chaldicotes. 

“ Oh, indeed !” she said, when the vicar had with some 
difficulty explained to her all the circumstances of the case. 


200 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“Well, I congratulate you, Mr. Robarts, on your powerful 
new patron.” 

“You will probably feel with me, Lady Lufton, that the 
benefice is one which I can hold without any detriment to 
me in my position here at Framley,” said he, prudently re- 
solving to let the slur upon his friends pass by unheeded. 

“ W ell, I hope so. Of course, you are a very young man, 
Mr. Robarts, and these things have generally been given 
to clergymen more advanced in life.” 

“ But you do not mean to say that you think I ought to 
refuse it ?” 

“ What my advice to you might be if you really came to 
me for advice, I am hardly prepared to say at so very short 
a notice. You seem to have made up your mind, and there- 
fore I need not consider it. As it is, I wish you joy, and 
hope that it may turn out to your advantage in every 
way.” 

“ You understand. Lady Lufton, that I have by no means 
got it as yet.” 

“ Oh, I thought it had been offered to you ; I thought 
you spoke of this new minister as having all that in his 
own hand.” 

“ Oh dear, no. What may be the amount of his influence 
in that respect I do not at all know. But my correspond- 
ent assures me — ” 

^ “ Mr. Sowerby, you mean. Why don’t you call him by 
his name ?” 

“ Mr. Sowerby assures me that Mr. Smith will ask for 
it, and thinks it most probable that his request will be suc- 
cessful.” 

“ Oh, of course. Mr. Sowerby and Mr. Harold Smith to- 
gether would no doubt be successful in any thing. They 
are the sort of men who are successful nowadays. Well, 
Mr. Robarts, I wish you joy.” And she gave him her hand 
in token of her sincerity. 

Mark took her hand, resolving to say nothing farther on 
that occasion. That Lady Lufton was not now cordial with 
him, as she used to be, he was well aware, and sooner or 
later he was determined to have the matter out with her. 
He would ask her why she now so constantly met him with 
a taunt, and so seldom greeted him with that kind old af- 
fectionate smile which he knew and appreciated so well. 
That she was honest and true he was quite sure. If he 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


201 


asked her the question plainly, she would answer him open- 
ly. And if he could induce her to say that she would re- 
turn to her old ways, return to them she would in a hearty 
manner. But he could not do this just at present. It was 
but a day or two since Mr. Crawley had been with him, 
and was it not probable that Mr. Crawley had been sent 
thither by Lady Lufton ? His own hands were not clean 
enough for a remonstrance at the present moment. He 
would cleanse them, and then he would remonstrate. 

“ Would you like to live part of the year in Barchester 
he said to his wife and sister that evening. 

“I think that two houses are only a trouble,” said his 
wife ; “ and we have been very happy here.” 

“I have always liked a cathedral town,” said Lucy ; “ and 
I am particularly fond of the Close.” 

“ And Barchester Close is the closest of all closes,” said 
Mark. “ There is not a single house Avithin the gateways 
that does not belong to the chapter.” 

“ But, if we are to keep up two houses, the additional in- 
come will soon be Avasted,” said Fanny, prudently. 

“The thing would be to let the house furnished every 
summer,” said Lucy. 

“ But I must take my residence as the terms come,” said 
the vicar ; “ and I certainly should not like to be aAvay from 
Framley all the winter; I should never see any thing of 
Lufton.” And perhaps he thought of his hunting, and then 
thought again of that cleansing of his hands. 

“ I should not a bit mind being aAvay during the winter,” 
said Lucy, thinking of Avhat the last Avinter had done for 
her. 

“But Avhere on earth should Ave find money to furnish 
one of those large, old-fashioned houses ? Pray, Mark, do 
not do any thing rash.” And the wife laid her hand affec- 
tionately on her husband’s arm. In this manner the ques- 
tion of the prebend was discussed betAreen them on the 
evening before he started for London. 

Success had at last crowned the earnest effort Avith Avhich 
Harold Smith had carried on the political battle of his life 
for the last ten years. The late Lord Petty Bag had re- 
signed in disgust, having been unable to digest the prime 
minister’s ideas on Indian Reform, and Mr. Harold Smith, 
after sundry hitches in the business, was installed in his 
jfiace. It Avas said that Harold Smith Avas not exactly the 


202 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


inan whom the premier would himself have chosen for that 
high office ; hut the premier’s hands were a good deal tied 
by circumstances. The last great appointment he had 
made had been terribly unpopular — so much so as to sub- 
ject him, popular as he undoubtedly was himself, to a 
screech from the whole nation. The Jupiter^ with wither- 
ing scorn, had asked whether vice of every kind was to be 
considered, in these days of Queen Victoria, as a passport 
to the cabinet. Adverse members of both houses had ar- 
rayed themselves in a pure panoply of morality, and thun- 
dered forth their sarcasms with the indignant virtue and 
keen discontent of political Juvenals; and even his own 
friends had held up their hands in dismay. Under these 
circumstances, he had thought himself obliged, in the pres- 
ent instance, to select a man who would not be especially 
objectionable to any party. Uow Harold Smith lived with 
his wife, and his circumstances were not more than ordina- 
rily embarrassed. He kept no race-horses ; and, as Lord 
Brock now heard for the first time, gave lectures in pro- 
vincial towns on popular subjects. He had a seat which 
was tolerably secure, and could talk to the House by the 
yard, if required to do so. Moreover, Lord Brock had a 
great idea that the whole machinery of his own ministry 
would break to pieces very speedily. His own reputation 
was not bad, but it was insufficient for himself and that 
lately-selected friend of his. Under all these circumstances 
combined, he chose Harold Smith to fill the vacant office 
of Lord Petty Bag. 

And very proud the Lord Petty Bag was. For the last 
three or four months, he and Mr. Supplehouse had been 
agreeing to consign the ministry to speedy perdition. 
“This sort of dictatorship will never do,” Harold Smith 
had himself said, justifying that future vote of his as to 
want of confidence in the queen’s government. And Mr. 
Supplehouse in this matter had fully agreed with him. He 
Avas a Juno whose form that Avicked old Paris had utterly 
despised, and he, too, had quite made up his mind as to the 
lobby in which he would be found when that day of venge- 
ance should arrive. But noAV things were much altered in 
Harold Smith’s views. The premier had shoAvn his wis- 
dom in seeking for new strength Avhere strength ought to 
be sought, and introducing new blood into the body of his 
ministry. The people Avould noAv feel fresh confidence. 


FllAMLEY PAKSOXAtlE. 


203 


and probably the House also. As to Mr. Supplehouse — he 
would use all his influence on Supplehouse. But, after all, 
Mr. Supplehouse was not every thing. 

On the morning after our vicar’s arrival in London he 
attended at the Petty Bag office. It was situated in the 
close neighborhood of Downing Street and the higher gov- 
ernmental gods ; and though the building itself was not 
much, seeing that it was shored up on one side, that it 
bulged out in the front, was foul with smoke, dingy with 
dirt, and was devoid of any single architectural grace or 
modern scientific improvement, nevertheless its position 
gave it a status in the world which made the clerks in the 
Lord Petty Bag’s office quite respectable in their walk in 
life. Mark had seen his friend Sowerby on the previous 
evening, and had then made an appointment with him for 
the following morning at the new minister’s office. And 
now he was there a little before his time, in order that he 
might have a few moments’ chat with his brother. 

When Mark found himself in the private secretary’s 
room, he was quite astonished to see the change in his 
brother’s appearance which the change in his official rank 
liad produced. J ack Robarts had been a well-built, straight- 
legged, lissome young fellow, pleasant to the eye because 
of his natural advantages, but rather given to a harum- 
skarum style of gait, and occasionally careless, not to say 
slovenly, in his dress. But now he was the very pink of 
perfection. His jaunty frock-coat fitted him to perfection ; 
not a hair of his head was out of place ; his waistcoat and 
trowsers W'ere glossy and new, and his umbrella, which 
stood in the umbrella-stand in the corner, was tight, and 
neat, and small, and natty. 

“Well, John, you’ve become quite a great man,” said 
his brother. 

“ I don’t know much about that,” said John, “ but I find 
that I have an enormous deal of fagging to go through.” 

“Do you mean work? I thought you had about the 
easiest berth in the whole civil service.” 

“Ah! that’s just the mistake that people make. Be- 
cause we don’t cover whole reams of foolscap paper at the 
rate of fifteen lines to a page, and five words to a line, peo- 
ple think that we private secretaries have got nothing to 
do. Look heue and he tossed over scornfully a dozen or 
so of little notes. “ I tell you what, Mark, it is no easy 


204 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


matter to manage the patronage of a cabinet minister. 
Now I am'bound to write to every one of these fellows a 
letter that will please him, and yet I shall refuse to every 
one of them the request which he asks.” 

“ That must be difficult.” 

“ Difficult is no word for it. But, after all, it consists 
chiefly in the knack of the thing. One must have the wit 
‘from such a sharp and waspish word as No to pluck the 
sting.’ I do it every day, and I really think that the peo- 
ple like it.” 

“Perhaps your refusals are better than other people’s 
acquiescences.” 

“I don’t mean that at all. We private secretaries have 
all to do the same thing. Now, would you believe it? I 
have used up three lifts of note-paper already in telling peo- 
ple that there is no vacancy for a lobby messenger in the 
Petty Bag office. Seven peeresses have asked for it for 
their favorite footmen. But there — there’s the Lord Petty 
Bag!” 

A bell rang, and the private secretary, jumping up from 
his note-paper, tripped away quickly to the great man’s 
room. 

“ He’ll see you at once,” said he, returning. “ Buggins, 
show the Reverend Mr. Robarts to the Lord Petty Bag.” 

Buggins was the messenger for whose not vacant place 
all the peeresses were striving with so much animation. 
And then Mark, following Buggins for two steps, was ush- 
ered into the next room. 

If a man be altered by becoming a private secretary, he 
is much more altered by being made a cabinet minister. 
Robarts, as he entered the room, could hardly believe that 
this was the same Harold Smith whom Mrs.Proudie both- 
ered so cruelly in the lecture-room at Barchester. Then 
he was cross, and touchy, and uneasy, and insigniflcant. 
Now, as he stood smiling on the hearth-rug of his official 
fireplace, it was quite pleasant to see the kind, patronizing 
smile which lighted up his features. He delighted to stand 
there, with his hands in his trowsers’ pocket, the great man 
of the place, conscious of his lordship, and feeling himself 
every inch a minister. Sowerby had come wdth him, and 
was standing a little in the background, from which posi- 
tion he winked occasionally at the parson over the minis' 
ter’s shoulder. 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


205 


“ Ah ! Roharts, delighted to see you. How odd, by-the- 
by, that your brother should be my private secretary !” 

Mark said that it was a singular coincidence. 

“ A very smart young fellow, and, if he minds himself, 
he’ll do well.” 

“ I’m quite sure he’ll do well,” said Mark. 

“ Ah ! well, yes, I think he will. And now, what can I 
do for you, Robarts ?” 

Hereupon Mr. Sowerby struck in, making it apparent by 
his explanation that Mr. Robarts himself by no means in- 
tended to ask for any thing; but that, as his friends had 
thought that this stall at Barchester might be put into his 
hands with more fitness than in those of any other clergy- 
man of the day, he was willing to accept the piece of pre- 
ferment from a man whom he respected so much as he did 
the new Lord Petty Bag. 

The minister did not quite like this, as it restricted him 
from much of his condescension, and robbed him of the in- 
cense of a petition which he had expected Mark Robarts 
would make to him. But, nevertheless, he was very gra- 
cious. 

“ He could not take upon himself to declare,” he said, 
“ what might be Lord Brock’s pleasure with reference to 
the preferment at Barchester which Avas A^acant. He had 
certainly already spoken to his lordship on the subject, and 
had perhaps some reason to believe that his OAvn Avishes 
Avould be consulted. 'No distinct promise had been made, 
but he might perhaps go so far as to say that he expected 
such result. If so, it Avould give him the greatest pleasure 
in the world to congratulate Mr. Robarts on the possession 
of a stall — a stall which he was sure Mr. Robarts would fill 
Avith dignity, piety, and brotherly love.” And then, when, 
he had finished, Mr. Sowerby gave a final wink, and said 
that he regarded the matter as settled. 

“No, not settled, Nathaniel,” said the cautious minister. 

“ It’s the same thing,” rejoined Sowerby. “ W e all knoAv 
Avhat all that flummery means. Men in ofiice, Mark, never 
do make a distinct promise — not even to themselves of the 
leg of mutton Avhich is roasting before their kitchen fires. 
It is so necessary in these days to be safe ; is it not, Harold?” 

“ Most expedient,” said Harold Smith, shaking his head 
AAusely. “Well, Robarts, who is it noAV?” This he said 
to his private secretary, Avho came to notice the arrival of 


200 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


some big wig. “Well, yes. I will say good-morning, Avitb 
your leave, for I am a little hurried. And remember, Mr. 
Ilobarts, I will do what I can for you ; but you must dis- 
tinctly understand that there is no promise.” 

“ Oh, no promise at all,” said Sowerby — “ of course not.” 
And then, as he sauntered up Whitehall toward Charing 
Cross, with Robarts on his arm, he again pressed upon him 
the sale of that invaluable hunter, who was eating his head 
off his shoulders in the stable at Chaldicotes. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


MONEY DEALINGS. 


Me. Sowerby, in his resolution to obtain this good gift 
for the Vicar of Framley, did not depend quite alone on the 
influence of his near connection with the Lord Petty Bag. 
He felt the occasion to be one on which he might endeavor 
to move even higher powers than that, and therefore he had 
opened the matter to the duke — not by direct application, 
but through Mr. Fothergill. Xo man who understood 
matters ever thought of going direct to the duke in such 
an affair as that. If one wanted to speak about a woman, 
or a horse, or a picture, the duke could, on occasions, be af- 
fable enough. 

But through Mr. Fothergill the duke was approached. 
It was represented, with some cunning, that this buying 
over of the Framley clergyman from the Lufton side would 
be a praiseworthy spoiling of the Amalekites. The doing 
so would give the Omnium interest a hold even in the 
Cathedral Close. And then it was known to all men that 
Mr. Robarts had considerable influence over Lord Lufton 
himself. So guided, the Duke of Omnium did say two 
words to the prime minister, and tAvo Avords from the duke 
Avent a great Avay even with Lord Brock. The upshot of 
all this Avas, that Mark Robarts did get the stall ; but he 
did not hear the tidings of his success till some days after 
his return to Framley. 

Mr. SoAverby did not forget to tell him of the great effort 
— the unusual effort, as ho of Chaldicotes called it— Avhich 
the duke had made on the subject. “I don’t know when 
he has done such a thing before,” said SoAverby; “and 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


207 


now bad you not gone to Gatherum Castle when he asked 
you ; indeed, Fothergill would have known that it was vain 
to attempt it. And I’ll tell you what, Mark, it does not do 
for me to make little of my own nest, but I truly believe 
the duke’s word will be more efficacious than the Lord 
Petty Bag’s solemn adjuration.” 

Mark, of course, expressed his gratitude in proper terms, 
and did buy the horse for a hundred and thirty pounds. 
“He’s as well Avorth it,” said Sowerby, “as any animal 
that ever stood on four legs; and my only reason for press- 
ing him on you is, that Avhen Tozer’s day does come round, 
I know you will have to stand to us to something about 
that tune.” It did not occur to Mark to ask him Avhy the 
horse should not be sold to some one else, and the money 
forthcoming in the regular Avay. But this Avould not have 
suited Mr. SoA\’'erby. 

Mark kneAv that the beast Avas good, and, as he Avalked 
to his lodgings, was half proud of his ncAV possession. But 
then, how would he justify it to his Avife, or hoAV introduce 
the animal into his stables Avithout attempting any justifica- 
tion in the matter? And yet, looking to the absolute 
amount of his income, surely he might feel himself entitled 
to buy a neAV horse Avhen it suited him. He Avondered 
Avhat Mr. Crawley would say Avhen he heard of the ncAv 
purchase. He had lately fallen into a state of much won- 
dering as to Avhat his friends and neighbors Avould say 
about him. 

He had noAV been tAvo days in town, and Avas to go doAvn 
after breakfast on the following morning so that he might 
reach home by Friday afternoon. But on that evening, 
just as he Avas going to bed, he Avas surprised by Lord Luf- 
ton coming into the coffee-room at his hotel. He Avalked 
in Avith a hurried step, his face Avas red, and it Avas clear 
that he was very angry. 

“Robarts,” said he, Avalking up to his friend and taking 
the hand that was extended to him, “do you knoAV any 
thing about this man Tozer ?” 

“ Tozer — what Tozer ? I have heard SoAverby speak of 
such a man.” 

“ Of course you have. If I do not mistake, you liaA'e 
Avritten to me about him yourself.” 

“ Very probably. I remember SoAverby mentioning the 
man Avith reference to your affairs. But Avhy do you ask 


208 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“This man has not only written to me, but has absolute- 
ly forced his way into my rooms when I was dressing for 
dinner, and absolutely had the impudence to tell me that if 
I did not honor some bill which he holds for eight hundred 
pounds, he would proceed against me.”- 

“ But you settled all that matter with Sowerby ?” 

“ I did settle it at a very great cost to me. Sooner than 
have a fuss, I paid him through the nose — like a fool that 
I was — every thing that he claimed. This is an absolute 
swindle, and if it goes on I will expose it as such.” 

Robarts looked round the room, but luckily there was 
not a soul in it but themselves. “ You do not mean to say 
that Sowerby is swindling you ?” said the clergyman. 

“It looks very like it,” said Lord Lufton; “and I tell 
you fairly that I am not in a humor to endure any more 
of this sort of thing. Some years ago I made an ass of my- 
self through that man’s fault. But four thousand pounds 
should have covered the whole of what I really lost. I 
have now paid more than three times that sum ; and, by 
heavens ! I will not pay more without exposing the whole 
affair.” 

“ But, Lufton, I do not understand. What is this bill ? 
Has it your name to it ?” 

“ Yes, it has ; I’ll not deny my name, and, if there be ab- 
solute need, I will pay it ; but if I do so, my lawyer shall 
sift it, and it shall go before a jury.” 

“But I thought all those bills were paid?” 

“ I left it to Sowerby to get up the old bills when they 
were renewed, and now one of them that has in truth been 
already honored is brought against me.” 

Mark could not but think of the two documents Avhich 
he himself had signed, and both of which were now undoubt- 
edly in the hands of Tozer, or of some other gentleman of 
the same profession— which both might be brought against 
him, the second as soon as he should have satisfied the first. 
And then he remembered that Sowerby had said something 
to him about an outstanding bill, for the filling up of which 
some trifle must be paid, and of this he reminded Lord Luf- 
ton. 

“ And do you call eight hundred pounds a trifle ? If so, 
I do not.” 

“ They will probably make no such demand as that.” 

“ But I tell you they do make such a demand, and have 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


209 


made it. The man -whom I saw, and who told me that ho 
was Tozer’s friend, but who was probably Tozer himself, 
positively swore to me that he would be obliged to take 
legal j)roceedings if the money were not forthcoming within 
a week or ten days. When I explained to him that it was 
an old bill that had been renewed, he declared that his 
friend had given full value for it.” 

“ Sowerby said that you would probably have to pay ten 
pounds to redeem it. *I should offer the man some such 
sum as that.” 

“My intention is to offer the man nothing, but to leave 
the affair in the hands of my lawyer, with instructions to 
him to spare none — neither myself, nor any one else. I am 
not going to allow such a man as Sowerby to squeeze me 
like an orange.” 

“ But, Lufton, you seem as though you were angry with 
me.” 

“No, I am not. But I think it is as well to caution you 
about this man ; my transactions with him lately have chief- 
ly been through you, and therefore — 

“ But they have only been so through his and your wish 
— ^because I have been anxious to oblige you both. I hope 
you don’t mean to say that I am concerned in these bills ?” 

“ I know that you are concerned in bills with him.” 

“ Why, Lufton, am I to understand, then, that you are 
accusing me of having any interest in these transactions 
which you have called swindling ?” 

“ As far as I am concerned, there has been swindling, 
and there is swindling going on now.”^ 

“ But you do not answer my question. Do you bring 
any accusation against me ? If so, I agree with you that 
you had better go to your lawyer.” 

“ I think that is what I shall do.” 

“ Very well. But, upon the whole, I never heard of a 
more unreasonable man, or of one whose thoughts are more 
unjust than yours. Solely with the view of assisting you, 
and solely at your request, I spoke to Sowerby about these 
money transactions of yours. Then, at his request, which 
originated out of your request, he using me as his embassa- 
dor to you, as you had used me as yours to him, I wrote 
and spoke to you. And now this is the upshot.” 

“ I bring no accusation against you, Robarts ; but I know 
you have dealings with this man. You have told me so 
yourself.” 


210 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Yes, at his request, to accommodate him, I have put my 
name to a bill.” 

“ Only to one ?” 

“ Only to one ; ana then to that same renewed, or not 
exactly to that same, but to one which stands for it. The 
first was for four hundred pounds ; the last for five hund- 
red.” 

“ All which you will have to make good, and the world 
will of course tell you that you have paid that j)rice for this 
stall at Barchester.” 

This was terrible to be borne. He had heard much late- 
ly which had frightened and scared him, but nothing so ter- 
rible as this — nothing which so stunned him, or conveyed 
to his mind so frightful a reality of misery and ruin. He 
made no immediate answer, but, standing on the hearth-rug 
wdth his back to the fire, looked up the whole length of the 
room. Hitherto his eyes had been fixed upon Lord Luf- 
ton’s face, but now it seemed to him as though he had but 
little more to do with Lord Lufton. Lord Lufton and Lord 
Lufton’s mother were neither now to be counted among 
those who wished him well. Upon whom, indeed, could 
he now count, except that wife of his bosom upon whom 
he was bringing all this wretchedness ? 

In that moment of agony ideas ran quickly through his 
brain. . He would immediately abandon this preferment at 
Barchester, of which it might be said with so much color 
that he had bought it. He would go to Harold Smith, and 
say positively that he declined it. Then he would return 
home and tell his wife all that had occurred — tell the whole 
also to Lady Lufton, if that might still be of any service. 
He would make arrangement for the payment of both those 
bills as they might be presented, asking no questions as to 
the justice of the claim, making no complaint to any one, 
not even to Sowerby. He would put half his income, if 
half were necessary, into the hands of Forrest the banker 
till all was paid. He would sell every horse he had. He 
would part with his footman and groom, and, at any rate, 
strive like a man to get again a firm footing on good ground. 
Then, at that moment, he loathed with his whole soul the 
position in which he found himself placed, and his own fol- 
ly which had placed him th^re. How could he reconcile it 
to his conscience that he was there in London with Sow.er- 
by and Harold Smith, petitioning for Churcli prefei’inent to 


FRAilLEY PARSONAGE. 


211 


a man who should have been altogether powerless in such 
a matter, buying horses, and arranging about past due- 
bills ? He did not reconcile it to his conscience. Mr. 
Crawley had been right when he told him that he was a 
castaway. 

Lord Lufton, whose anger during the whole interview 
had been extreme, and who had become more angry the 
more he talked, had now walked once or twice up and 
down the room, and as he so walked the idea did occur to 
him that he had been unjust. He had come there with 
the intention of exclaiming against Sowerby, and of indu- 
cing Robarts to convey to that gentleman that if he. Lord 
Lufton, were made to undergo any farther annoyance about 
this bill, the wLole affair should be thrown into the law- 
yer’s hands ; but instead of doing this, he had brought an 
accusation against Robarts. That Robarts had latterly 
become Sowerby’s friend rather than his own in all these 
horrid money-dealings had galled him, and now he had 
expressed himself in terms much stronger than he had in- 
tended to use. 

“ As to you personally, Mark,” he said, coming back to 
the spot on which Robarts was standing, “I do not wish 
to say any thing that shall annoy you.” 

“You have said quite enough. Lord Lufton.” 

“You can not be surprised that I should be angry and 
indignant at the treatment I have received.” 

“ You might, I think, have separated in your mind those 
who have wronged you, if there has been such wrong, from 
those who have only endeavored to do your will and pleas- 
ure for you. That I, as a clergyman, have been very wrong 
in taking any part whatsoever in these matters, I am well 
aware. That, as a man, I have been outrageously foolish 
in lending my name to Mr. Sowerby, I also know well 
enough : it is perhaps as well that I should be told of this 
somewhat rudely, but I certainly did not expect the lesson 
to come from you.” 

“Well, there has been mischief enough. The question 
is, What we had better now both do ?” 

“You have said what you mean to do. You will put 
the affair into the hands of your lawyer.” 

“Not with any object of exposing you.” 

“ Exposing me. Lord Lufton ! Why, one Avould think 
that I had had the handling of your money.” 


212 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“You will misunderstand me. I think no such thing. 
But do you not know yourself that if legal steps be taken 
in this wretched affair, your arrangements with Sowerby 
will be brought to light 

“ My arrangements with SoWerby will consist in paying 
or having to pay, on his account, a large sum of money, 
for which I have never had and shall never have any con- 
sideration whatever.” 

“ And what will be said about this stall at Barchester ?” 

“After the charge which you brought against me just 
now, I shall decline to accept it.” 

At this moment three or four other gentlemen entered 
the room, and the conversation between our two friends 
was stopped. They still remained standing near the fire, 
but for a few moments neither of them said any thing. 
Robarts was waiting till Lord Lufton should go away, and 
Lord Lufton had not yet said that which he had come to 
say. At last he spoke again, almost in a whisper: “I 
think it will be best to ask Sowerby to come to my rooms 
to-morrow, and I think also that you should meet him 
there.” 

“ I do not see any necessity for my presence,” said Ro- 
barts. “It seems probable that I shall suffer enough for 
meddling with your affairs, and I will do so no more.” 

“ Of course I can not make you come ; but I think it 
will be only just to Sowerby, and it will be a favor to me.” 

Robarts again walked up and down the room for half a 
dozen times, trying to resolve what it would most become 
him to do in the present emergency. If his name were 
dragged before the courts — if he should be shown up in 
the public papers as having been engaged in accommoda- 
tion bills, that would certainly be ruinous to him. He had 
already learned from Lord Lufton’s innuendoes what he 
might expect to hear as the public version of his share in 
these transactions! And then his wife — how would she 
bear such exposure ? 

“ I will meet Mr. Sowerby at your rooms to-morrow on 
one condition,” he at last said. 

“ And what is that ?” 

“ That I receive your positive assurance that I am not 
suspected by you of having had any pecuniary interest 
whatever in any money matters with Mr. Sowerby, either 
as concerns your affairs or those of any body else.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


213 


“ I have never suspected you of any such thing. But 1 
have thought that you were compromised with him.” 

“And so I am — I am liable for these bills. But you 
ought to have known, and do know, that I have never re- 
ceived a shilling on account of such liability. I have en- 
deavored to oblige a man whom I regarded first as your 
friend, and then as my own ; and this has been the result.” 

Lord Lufton did at last give him the assurance that he 
desired, as they sat with their heads together over one of 
the coffee-room tables ; and then Robarts promised that he 
would postpone his return to Framley till the Saturday, 
so that he might meet Sowerby at Lord Lufton’s chambers 
in the Albany on the following afternoon. As soon as this 
was arranged, Lord Lufton took his leave and went his 
way. 

After that, poor Mark had a very uneasy night of it. It 
'was clear enough that Lord Lufton had thought, if he did 
not still think, that the stall at Barchester was to be given 
as pecuniary recompense in return for certain money ac- 
commodation to be afforded by the nominee to the dis- 
penser of this patronage. IST othing on earth could be worse 
than this. In the first place, it would be simony ; and then 
it would be simony beyond all description mean and simo- 
niacal. The very thought of it filled Mark’s soul with hor- 
ror and dismay. It might be that Lord Lufton’s suspicions 
were now at rest ; but others would think the same thing, 
and their suspicions it would be impossible to allay ; those 
others would consist of the outer world, which is always 
so eager to gloat over the detected vice of a clergyman. 

And then that wretched horse which he had purchased, 
and the purchase of -which should have prohibited him from 
saying that nothing of value had accrued to him in these 
transactions with Mr. Sowerby ! what was he to do about 
that ? And then of late he had been spending, and had 
continued to spend, more money than he could well afford. 
This very journey of his up to London would be most im- 
prudent, if it should become necessary for him to give up 
all hope of holding the prebend. As to that he had made 
up his mind ; but then again he unmade it, as men always 
do in such troubles. That line of conduct which he had 
laid down for himself in the first moments of his indigna- 
tion against Lord Lufton, by adopting which he would 
Lave to encounter poverty, and ] iclicule, and discomfort, 


214 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


the annihilation of his liigli hopes, and the ruin of his am- 
bition — that, he said to himself over and over again, would 
now be the best for him. But it is so hard for us to give 
up our high hopes, and willingly encounter poverty, ridi- 
cule, and discomfort ! 

On the following morning, however, he boldly walked 
down to the Petty Bag Office, determined to let Harold 
Smith know that he was no longer desirous of the Barches- 
ter stall. He found his brother there, still writing artistic 
notes to anxious peeresses on the subject of Buggins’ non- 
vacant situation ; but the great man of the j^lace, the Lord 
Petty Bag himself, was not there. He might probably 
look in when the House was beginning to sit, perhaps at 
four or a little later ; but he certainly would not be at the 
office in the morning. The functions of the Lord Petty 
Bag he was no doubt performing elsewhere. Perhaps he 
had carried his work home with him — a practice which 
the world should know is not uncommon with civil serv- 
ants of exceeding ze’al. 

Mark did think of ot)ening his heart to his brother, and 
of leaving his message with him. But his courage failed 
him, or perhaps it might be more correct to say that his 
prudence prevented him. It would be better for him, he 
thought, to tell his wife before he told any one else. So 
he merely chatted with his brother for half an hour, and 
then left him. 

The day was very tedious till the hour came at which he 
Avas to attend at Lord Lnfton’s rooms ; but at last it did 
come, and just as the clock struck he turned out of Picca- 
dilly into the Albany. As he Avas going across the court, 
before he entered the building, he Avas greeted by a voice 
just behind him. 

“As punctual as the big clock on Barchester toAver,” 
said Mr. Sowerby. “ See Avhat it is to haA^e a summons 
from a great man, Mr. Prebendary.” 

He turned round and extended his hand mechanically to 
Mr. Sowerby, and as he looked at him he thought he had 
never before seen him so pleasant in appearance, so free 
from care, and so joyous in demeanor. 

“ You have heard from Lord Lufton,” said Mark, in a 
voice that Avas certainly very lugubrious. 

“ Heard from him ! oh, yes, of course I have heard from 
him. I’ll tell you Avhat it is, Mark,” and he noAV spoke al- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


215 


most in a whisper as they walked together along the Al- 
bany passage, “ Lufton is a child in money matters — a per- 
fect child. The dearest, finest fellow in the world, you 
know, but a very baby in money matters.” And then 
they entered his lordship’s rooms. 

Lord Lufton’s countenance also was lugubrious enough, 
but this did not in the least abash Sowerby, who walked 
quickly up to the young lord, with his gait perfectly self- 
possessed and his face radiant with satisfaction. 

“ Well, Lufton, how are you ?” said he. “ It seems that 
my worthy friend Tozer has been giving you some trouble ?” 

Then Lord Lufton, with a face by no means radiant with 
satisfaction, again began the story of Tozer’s fraudulent de- 
mand upon him. Sowerby did not interrupt him, but lis- 
tened patiently to the end — quite patiently, although Lord 
Lufton, as he made himself more and more angry by the 
history of his own wrongs, did not hesitate to pronounce 
certain threats against Mr. Sowerby, as he had pronounced 
them before against Mark Robarts. He would not, he said, 
23ay a shilling except through his lawyer ; and he would in- 
struct his lawyer that, before he paid any thing, the whole 
matter should be exposed openly in court. He did not 
care, he said, what might be the effect on himself or any 
one else. He was determined that the whole case should 
go to a jury. 

“ To grand jury, and special jury, and common jury, and 
Old Jewry, if you like,” said Sowerby. “The ‘truth is, 
Lufton, you lost some money, and as there was some delay 
in paying it, you have been harassed.” 

“I have paid more than I lost three times over,” said 
Lord Lufton, stamping his foot. 

“ I will not go into that question now. It was settled, 
as I thought, some time ago, by persons to whom you your- 
self referred it. But will you tell me this : Why on earth 
should Robarts be troubled in this matter ? What has he 
done ?” 

“Well, I don’t know. He arranged the matter with 
you.” 

“ Xo such thing. He was kind enough to carry a mes- 
sage from you to me, and to convey back a return message 
from me to you. That has been his part in it.” 

“ You don’t suppose that I want to imj^licate him, do 
you ?” 


216 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ I don’t think you want to implicate any one, but you 
are hot-headed and difficult to deal with, and very irrational 
into the bargain. And, what is worse, I must say you are 
a little suspicious. In all this matter I have harassed my- 
self greatly to oblige you, and in return I have got more 
kicks than halfpence.” 

“Did not you give this bill to Tozer — the bill which he 
now holds ?” 

“ In the first place, he does not hold it ; and, in the next 
place, I did not give it to him. These things pass through 
scores of hands before they reach the man who makes the 
application for payment.” 

“ And who came to me the other day ?” 

“ That, I take it, was Tom Tozer, a brother of our Tozer’s.” 

“ Then he holds the bill, for I saw it with him.” 

“ Wait a moment ; that is very likely. I sent you word 
that you would have to pay for taking it up. Of course 
they don’t abandon those sort of things without some con- 
sideration.” 

“ Ten pounds, you said,” observed Mark. 

“ Ten or twenty ; some such sum as that. But you were 
hardly so soft as to suppose that the man would ask for 
such a sum. Of course he would demand the full payment. 
There is the bill. Lord Lufton,” and Sowerby, producing a 
document, handed it across the table to his lordship. “ I 
gave five-and-twenty pounds for it this morning.” 

Lord Lufton took the paper and looked at it. “Yes,” 
said he, “ that’s the bill. What am I to do with it now ?” 

“ Put it with the family archives,” said Sowerby — “ or 
behind the fire, just which you please.” 

“ And is this the last of them ? Can no other be brought 
up ?” 

“ You know better than I do what paper you may have 
put your hand to. I know of no other. At the last re- 
newal, that was the only outstanding bill of which I was 
aware.” 

“ And you have paid five-and-twenty pounds for it ?” 

“ I have. Only that you have been in such a tantrum 
about it, and would have made such a noise this afternoon 
if I had not brought it, I might have had it for fifteen or 
twenty. In three or four days they would have taken fif- 
teen.” 

“ The odd ten pounds does not signify, and I’ll pay you 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 217 

the twenty-five, of course,” said Lord Liifton, who now be- 
gan to feel a little ashamed of himself. 

“ You may do as you please about that.” 

“ Oh ! it’s my afiair, as a matter of course. Any amount 
of that kind I don’t mind,” and he sat down to fill in a 
check for the money. 

“ Well, now, Lufton, let me say a few words to you,” 
said Sowerby, standing with his back against the fireplace, 
and playing with a small cane which he held in his hand. 
“ For heaven’s sake try and be a little more charitable to 
those around you. AVhen you become fidgety about any 
thing, you indulge in language which the world won’t stand, 
though men who know you as well as Robarts and I may 
consent to put up with it. You have accused me, since I 
have been here, of all manner of iniquity — ” 

“Row, Sowerby — ” 

“ My dear fellow, let me have my say out. You have 
accused me, I say, and I believe that you have accused him. 
But it has never occurred to you, I dare say, to accuse 
yourself.” 

“ Indeed it has.” 

“ Of course you have been wrong in having to do with 
such men as Tozer. I have also been very wrong. It 
wants no great moral authority to tell us that. Pattern 
gentlemen don’t have dealings with Tozer, and very much 
the better they are for not having them. But a man should 
have back enough to bear the weight which he himself puts 
on it. Keep away from Tozer, if you can, for the future ; 
but if you do deal with him, for heaven’s sake keep your 
temper.” 

“ That’s all very fine, Sowerby ; but you know as well 
as I do — ” 

“ I know this,” said the devil quoting Scripture, as he 
folded up the check for twenty-five pounds, and put it in 
his pocket, “ that when a man sows tares, he won’t reap 
wheat, and it’s no use to expect it. I am tough in these 
matters, and can bear a great deal — that is, if I be not 
pushed too far,” and he looked full into Lord Lufton’s face 
as he spoke ; “ but I think you have been very hard upon 
Robarts.” 

“ Rever mind me, Sowerby ; Lord Lufton and I are very 
old friends.” 

“And may therefore take a liberty with each other. 


218 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Very well. And now I’ve done my sermon. My dear 
dignitary, allow me to congratulate you. I hear from Foth- 
ergill that that little affair of yours has been definitely set- 
tled.” 

Mark’s face again became clouded. “ I rather think,” 
said he, “ that I shall decline the presentation.” 

“ Decline it !” said Sowei*by, who, having used his ut- 
most efforts to obtain it, would have been more absolutely 
offended by such vacillation on the vicar’s part than by any 
personal abuse which either he or Lord Lufton could heap 
upon him. 

“ I think I shall,” said Mark. 

“ And why ?” 

Mark looked up at Lord Lufton, and then remained si- 
lent for a moment. 

“ There can be no occasion for such a sacrifice under the 
present circumstances,” said his lordship. 

“ And under what circumstances could there be occasion 
for it ?” asked Sowerby. “ The Duke of Omnium has used 
some little influence to get the place for you as a parish 
clergyman belonging to his county, and I should think it 
monstrous if you were now to reject it.” 

And then Robarts openly stated the whole of his reasons, 
explaining exactly what Lord Lufton had said with refer- 
ence to the bill transactions, and to the allegation which 
would be made as to the stall having been given in pay- 
ment for the accommodation. 

“ Upon my word, that’s too bad,” said Sowerby. 

“ Now, Sowerby, I won’t be lectured,” said Lord Lufton. 

“ I have done my lecture,” said he, aware, perhaps, that 
it would not do for him to push his friend too far, “and I 
shall not give a second. But, Robarts, let me tell you this : 
as far as I know, Harold Smith has had little or nothing to 
do with the appointment. The duke has told the prime 
minister that he was very anxious that a parish clergyman 
from the county should go into the chapter, and then, at 
Lord Brock’s request, he named you. If, under those cir- 
cumstances, you talk of giving it up, I shall believe you to 
be insane. As for the bill which you accepted for me, you 
need have no uneasiness about it. The money will be 
ready ; but of course, when that time comes, you will let 
me have the hundred and thirty for — ” 

And then Mr. Sowerby took his leave, having certainly 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


219 


made himself master of the occasion. If a man of fifty have 
his wits about him, and be not too prosy, he can generally 
make himself master of the occasion when his companions 
are under thirty. 

Kobarts did not stay at the Albany long after him, but 
took his leave, having received some assurances of Lord 
Lufton’s regret for what had passed, and many promises 
of his friendship for the future. Indeed, Lord Lufton was 
a little ashamed of himself. “ And as for the prebend, after 
what has passed, of course you must accept it.” Neverthe- 
less, his lordship had not omitted to notice Mr. Sowerby’s 
hint about the horse and the hundred and thirty pounds. 

Robarts, as he walked back to his hotel, thought that he 
certainly would accept the Barchester promotion, and was 
very glad that he had said nothing on the subject to his 
brother. On the whole, his spirits were much raised. That 
assurance of Sowerby’s about the bill was very comforting 
to him ; and, strange to say, he absolutely believed it. In 
truth, Sowerby had been so completely the winning horse 
at the late meeting, that both Lord Lufton and Robarts 
were inclined to believe almost any thing he said — which 
was not always the case with either of them. 


CHAPTER XX. 

HAROLD SMITH IN THE CABINET. 

For a few days the whole Harold Smith pai’ty held their 
heads very high. It was not only that their man had been 
made a cabinet minister, but a rumor had got abroad that 
Lord Brock, in selecting him, had amazingly strengthened 
his party, and done much to cure the wounds which his 
own arrogance and lack of judgment had inflicted on the 
body politic of his government. So said the Harold-Smith- 
ians, much elated. And when we consider what Harold 
had himself achieved, Ave need not be surprised that he 
himself Avas someAvhat elated also. 

It must be a proud day for any man Avhen he first Avalks 
into a cabinet. But Avhen a humble-minded man thinks of 
such a phase of life, his mind becomes lost in Avondering 
Avhat a cabinet is. Are they gods that attend there, or 
men ? Do they sit on chairs, or hang about on clouds ? 
When they speak, is the music of the spheres audible in 


220 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


their Olympian mansion, making heaven drowsy with its 
harmony? In wdiat way do they congregate? In what 
order do they address each other ? Are the voices of all 
the deities free and equal ? Is plodding Themis from the 
Home Dej)artment, or Ceres from the Colonies, heard Avith 
as rapt attention as poAverful Pallas of the Foreign Office, 
the goddess that is never seen Avithont her lance and helm- 
et ? Does our Whitehall Mars make eyes there at bright 
young Venus of the Privy Seal, disgusting that quaint 
tinkering Vulcan, Avho is blowing his belloAVS at our Ex- 
chequer, not altogether unsuccessfully ? Old Saturn of the 
Woolsack sits there mute, Ave Avill say, a relic of other days, 
as seated in this divan. The hall in Avhich he rules is noAV 
elseAvhere. Is our Mercury of the Post-office ever ready to 
fly nimbly from globe to globe, as great Jove may order 
him, Avhile bTeptune, unaccustomed to the Avaves, oflers 
needful assistance to the Apollo of the India Board ? How 
Juno sits apart, glum and hufly, uncared for. Council Presi- 
dent though she be, great in name, but despised among 
gods — that Ave can guess. If Bacchus and Cupid share 
Trade and the Board of Works between them, the fitness 
of things Avill have been as fully consulted as is usual. And 
modest Diana of the Petty Bag, latest summoned to these 
banquets of ambrosia — does she not cling retiring near the 
doors, hardly able as yet to make her Ioav voice heard 
among her brother deities? But Jove, great Jove — old 
Jove, the King of Olympus, hero among gods and men, hoAV 
does he carry himself in these councils summoned by his 
voice ? Does he lie there at his ease, Avith his purple cloak 
cut from the firmament around his shoulders ? Is his 
thunderbolt ever at his hand to reduce a recreant god to 
order? Can he proclaim silence in that immortal hall? Is 
it not there as elseAvhere, in all places, and among all na- 
tions, that a king of gods and a king of men is and Avill be 
king, rules and Avill rule, over those Avho are smaller than 
himself? 

Harold Smith, Avhen he Avas summoned to the august 
hall of divine councils, did feel himself to be a proud man ; 
but Ave may perhaps conclude that at the first meeting or 
tAvo he did not attempt to take a very leading part. Some 
of my readers may have sat at vestries, and Avill remember 
how mild, and, for the most part, mute, is a new-comer at 
their board. He agrees generally, Avith abated enthusiasm ; 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


221 


but should lie diifer, he apologizes for the liberty. But 
anon, when the voices of his colleagues have become habit- 
ual in his ears, when the strangeness of the room is gone, 
and the table before him is known and trusted, he throws 
off his awe and dismay, and electrifies his brotherhood by 
the vehemence of his declamation and the violence of his 
thumping. So let us suppose it will be with Harold Smith, 
perhaps in the second or third season of his cabinet prac- 
tice. Alas! alas! that such pleasures should be so fleet- 
ing! 

And then, too, there came upon him a blow which some- 
what modified his triumph — a cruel, dastard blow, from a 
hand which should have been friendly to him, from one to 
whom he had fondly looked to buoy him up in the great 
course that was before him. It had been said by his friends 
that in obtaining Harold Smith’s services the prime minis- 
ter had infused new young healthy blood into his body. 
Harold himself had liked the phrase, and had seen at a 
glance how it might have been made to tell by some friend- 
ly Supplehouse or the like. But why should a Supplehouse 
out of Elysium be friendly to a Harold Smith within it ? 
Men lapped in Elysium, steeped to the neck in bliss, must 
expect to see their friends fall off from them. Human na- 
ture can not stand it. If I want to get any thing from my 
old friend Jones, I like to see him shoved up into a high 
place. But if Jones, even in his high place, can do nothing 
for me, then his exaltation above my head is an insult and 
an injury. Who ever believes his own dear intimate com- 
panion to be fit for the highest, promotion ? Mr. Supple- 
house had known Mr. Smith too closely to think much of 
his young blood. 

Consequently, there appeared an article in the Jupiter 
which was by no means complimentary to the ministry in 
general. It harped a good deal on the young blood view 
of the question, and seemed to insinuate that Harold Smith 
was not much better than diluted water. “ The prime 
minister,” the article said, “ having lately recruited his im- 
paired vigor by a new infusion of aristocratic influence of 
the highest moral tone, had again added to himself another 
tower of strength chosen from among the people. What 
might he not hope, now that he possessed the services of 
Lord Brittleback and Mr. Harold Smith ! Renovated in a 
Medea’s caldron of such potency, all his efiete limbs — and 


222 


FRAMLEY PARSOXAGE. 


it must be acknowledged that some of tliem had become 
very effete — Avould come forth young, and round, and ro- 
bust. A new energy would diffuse itself through every 
department; India would be saved and quieted; the am- 
bition of France would be tamed; even-handed reform 
would remodel our courts of law and parliamentary elec- 
tions ; and Utopia would be realized. Such, it seems, is the 
result expected in the ministry from Mr. Harold Smith’s 
young blood !” 

This was cruel enough, but even this was hardly so cruel 
as the words with which the article ended. By that time 
irony had been dropped, and the writer spoke out earnestly 
his opinion upon the matter. “We beg to assure Lord 
Brock,” said the article, “ that such alliances as these will 
not save him from the speedy fall with which his arrogance 
and want of judgment threaten to overwhelm it. As re- 
gards himself, we shall be sorry to hear of his resignation. 
He is in many respects the best statesman that we possess 
for the emergencies of the present period. But if he be so 
ill-judged as to rest on such men as Mr. Harold Smith and 
Lord Brittleback for his assistants in the work which is be- 
fore him, he must not expect that the country will support 
him. Mr. Harold Smith is not made of the stuff from which 
cabinet ministers should be formed.” 

Mr. Harold Smith, as he read this, seated at his break- 
fast-table, recognized, or said that he recognized, the hand 
of Mr. Supplehouse in every touch. That phrase about the 
effete limbs was Supplehouse all over, as was also the real- 
ization of Utopia. “ When he Avants to be Avitty, he al- 
ways talks about Utopia,” said Mr. Harold Smith — to him- 
self; for Mrs. Harold Avas not usually present in the flesh 
at these matutinal meals. 

And then he went doAAm to his office, and saAv in the 
glance of every man that he met an announcement that 
that article in the Jupiter had been read. His private sec- 
retary tittered in evident allusion to the article, and the 
Avay in Avhich Buggins took his coat made it clear that it 
Avas Avell knoAvn in the messenger’s lobby. “He Avon’t 
ha\’e to fill up my A^acancy Avhen I go,” Buggins AA^as say- 
ing to himself And then in the course of the morning 
came the cabinet council, the second that he had attended, 
and he read in the countenance of every god and goddess 
there assembled that their chief Avas thought to have made 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


223 


another mistake. If Mr. Supplehouse could have been in- 
duced to write in another strain, then indeed that new 
blood might have been felt to have been efficacious. 

All this was a great drawback to his happiness, but still 
it could not rob him of the fact of his position. Lord 
Brock could not ask him to resign because the Jupiter had 
written against him ; nor was Lord Brock the man to de- 
sert a new colleague for such a reason. So Harold Smith 
girded his loins, and went about the duties of the Petty 
Bag with new zeal. “ Upon my word, the Jupiter is right,” 
said young Robarts to himself, as he finished his fourth 
dozen of private notes explanatory of every thing in and 
about the Petty Bag Office. Harold Smith required that 
his private secretary’s notes should be so terribly precise. 

But, nevertheless, in spite of his drawbacks, Harold 
Smith was happy in his new honors, and Mrs. Harold Smith 
enjoyed them also. She certainly, among her acquaintance, 
did quiz the new cabinet minister not a little, and it may 
be a question whether she was not as hard upon him as the 
writer in the Jupiter, She whispered a great deal to Miss 
Dunstable about new blood, and talked of going down to 
Westminster Bridge to see whether the Thames were real- 
ly on fire. But, though she laughed, she triumphed, and 
though she flattered herself that she bore her honors with- 
out any outward sign, the world knew that she was tri, 
umphing, and ridiculed her elation. 

About this time she also gave a party — not a pure-mind- 
ed conversazione like Mrs. Proudie, but a downright wick- 
ed worldly dance, at which there were fiddles, ices, and 
Champagne sufficient to run away with the first quarter’s 
salary accruing to Harold from the Petty Bag Office. To 
us this ball is chiefly memorable from the fact that Lady 
Lufton was among the guests. Immediately on her arrival 
in town she received cards from Mrs. H. Smith for herself 
and Griselda, and was about to send back a reply at once 
declining the honor. What had she to do at the house of 
Mr. Sowerby’s sister? But it so happened that at that 
moment her son was with her, and, as he expressed a wish 
that she should go, she yielded. Had there been nothing 
in his tone of persuasion more than ordinary — had it mere- 
ly had reference to herself, she would have smiled on him 
for his kind solicitude, have made out some occasion for 
kissing his forehead as she thanked him, and would still 


224 


TEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


have declined. But he had reminded her both of himself 
and Griselda. “You might as well go, mother, for the 
sake of meeting me,” he said ; “ Mrs. Harold caught me 
the other day, and would not liberate me till I had given 
her a promise.” 

“That is an attraction, certainly,” said Lady Lufton. 
“ I do like going to a house when I know that you will be 
there.” 

“ And, now that Miss Grantly is with you, you owe it to 
her to do the best you can for her.” 

“ I certainly do, Ludovic ; and I have to thank you for 
reminding me of my duty so gallantly.” And so she said 
she would go to Mrs. Harold Smith’s. Poor lady ! She 
gave much more weight to those few words about Miss 
Grantly than they deserved. It rejoiced her heart to think 
that her son was anxious to meet Griselda — that he should 
perpetrate this little nise in order to gain his wish. But 
he had spoken out of the mere emptiness of his mind, with- 
out thought of what he was saying, excepting that he 
wished to please his mother. 

But, nevertheless, he went to Mrs. Harold Smith’s, and 
wlien there he did dance more than once with Griselda 
Grantly — to the manifest discomfiture of Lord Dumbello. 
He came in late, and at the moment Lord Dumbello was 
moving slowly up the room, with Griselda on his arm, 
while Lady Lufton was sitting near, looking on with un- 
happy eyes. And then Griselda sat down, and Lord Dum- 
bello stood mute at her elbow. 

“ Ludovic,” whispered his mother, “ Griselda is absolute- 
ly bored by that man, who follows her like a ghost. Do 
go and rescue her.” 

He did go and rescue her, and afterward danced with 
her for the best part of an hour consecutively. He knew 
that the world gave Lord Dumbello the credit of admiring 
the young lady, and was quite alive to the pleasure of fill- 
ing his brother nobleman’s heart with jealousy and anger. 
Moreover, Griselda was in his eyes very beautiful, and, had 
she been one whit more animated, or had his mother’s tac- 
tics been but a thought better concealed, Griselda might 
have been asked that night to share the vacant throne at 
Lufton, in spite of all that had been said and sworn in the 
drawing-room of Frarnley Parsonage. 

It must be remembered that our gallant, gay Lothario 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


225 


had passed some considerable number of days with Miss 
Grantly in his mother’s house, and the danger of such con- 
tiguity must be remembered also. Lord Lufton was by no 
means a man capable of seeing beauty unmoved, or of 
spending hours Avith a young lady without some approach 
to tenderness. Had there been no such approach, it is 
probable that Lady Lufton would not have pursued the 
matter. But, according to her ideas on such subjects, her 
son Ludovic had on some occasions shown quite sufficient 
partiality for Miss Grantly to justify her in her hopes, and 
to lead her to think that nothing but opportunity was 
Avanted. Now, at this ball of Mrs. Smith’s, he did, for a 
AVhile, seem to be taking advantage of such opportunity, 
and his mother’s heart Avas glad. If things should turn 
out Avell on this evening, she Avould forgive Mrs. Harold 
Smith all her sins. 

And for a while it looked as though things would turn 
out Avell. Not that it must be supposed that Lord Lufton 
liad come there with any intention of making love to Gri- 
selda, or that he ever had any fixed thought that he was 
doing so. Young men in such matters are so often Avith- 
out any fixed thoughts ! They are such absolute moths. 
They amuse themselves Avith the light of the beautiful can- 
dle, fluttering about, on and off, in and out of the flame 
Avith dazzled eyes, till in a rash moment they rush in too 
near the wick, and then fall Avith singed Avings and crippled 
legs, burnt up and reduced to tinder by the consuming fire 
of matrimony. Happy marriages, men say, are made in 
heaven, and I befleA^ e it. Most marriages are fairly happy, 
in spite of Sir Cress well Cress well ; and yet hoAV little care 
is taken on earth toward such a result ! 

“ I hope my mother is using you Avell !” said Lord Luf- 
ton to Griselda, as they were standing together in a door-*^ 
Avay betAA^een the dances. 

“ Oh yes, she is very kind.” 

“You have been rash to trust yourself in the hands of 
so very staid and demure a person. And, indeed, you owe 
your presence here at Mrs. Harold Smith’s first cabinet ball 
altogether to me. I don’t know Avhether you are aAvare 
of that.” 

“ Oh yes. Lady Lufton told me.” 

“ And are you grateful or otherAvise ? Have I done you 
an injury or a benefit? Which do you find best, sitting 
K2 


226 


‘ FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


with a novel in the corner of a sofa in Bruton Street, or 
pretending to dance polkas here with Lord Dumbello 

“ I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t stood up with 
Lord Dumbello all the evening. We were going to dance 
a quadrille, but we didn’t.” 

“Exactly; just what I say — pretending to do it. Even 
that’s a good deal for Lord Dumbello; isn’t it?” And 
then Lord Lufton, not being a pretender himself, put his 
arm round her waist, and away they went up and down 
the room, and across and about, with an energy wliich 
showed that what Griselda lacked in her tongue she made 
up with her feet. Lord Dumbello, in the mean time, stood 
by, observant, thinking to himself that Lord Lufton was a 
glib-tongued, empty-headed ass, and reflecting that if his 
rival were to break the tendons of his leg in one of those 
rapid evolutions, or suddenly come by any other dreadful 
misfortune, such as the loss of all his property, absolute 
blindness, or chronic lumbago, it would only serve him 
right. And in that frame of mind he went to bed, in spite 
of the prayer which no doubt he said as to his forgiveness 
of other people’s trespasses. 

And then, when they were again standing. Lord Lufton, 
in the little intervals between his violent gasps for fresh 
breath, asked Griselda if she liked London. “Pretty 
Avell,” said Griselda, gasping also a little herself. 

“ I am afraid — you were very dull — down at Framley.” 

“ Oh no ; I liked it — particularly.” 

“ It was a great bore when you went — away, I know. 
There wasn’t a soul — about the house worth speaking to.” 
And they remained silent for a minute till their lungs had 
become quiescent. 

“Not a soul,” he continued — not of falsehood prepense, 
for he w^as not, in fact, thinking of what he was saying. 
It did not occur to him at the moment that he had truly 
found Griselda’s going a great relief, and that he had been 
able to do more in the way of conversation with Lucy 
Robarts in one hour than with Miss Grantly during a 
month of intercourse in the same house. But, neverthe- 
less, we should not be hard upon him. All is fair in love 
and Avar ; and if this Avas not love, it Avas the usual thing 
that stands as a counterpart for it. 

“Not a soul,” said Lord Lufton. “I Avas A^ery nearly 
hanging myself in the park next morning — only it rained,” 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


227 


“ What nonsense ! You had your mother to talk to.” 

“ Oh, my mother — yes ; and you may tell me, too, if you 
please, that Captain Culpepper was there. I do love my 
• mother dearly ; but do you think that she could make up 
for your absence ?” And his voice was very tender, and 
so were his eyes. 

“ And Miss Robarts ; I thought you admired her very 
much.” 

“ What, Lucy Robarts ?” said Lord Lufton, feeling that 
Lucy’s name was more than he at present knew how to 
manage. Indeed, that name destroyed all the life there 
was in that little flirtation. “ I do like Lucy Robarts, cer- 
tainly. She is very clever ; but it so happened that I saw 
little or nothing of her after you were gone.” 

To this Griselda made no answer, but drew herself up, 
and looked as cold as Diana when she froze Orion in the 
cave. Nor could she be got to give more than monosyl- 
labic answers to the three or four succeeding attempts at 
conversation which Lord Lufton made. And then they 
danced again, but Griselda’s steps were by no means so 
lively as before. 

What took place between them on that occasion was 
very little more than wdiat has been here related. There 
may have been an ice or a glass of lemonade into the bar- 
gain, and perhaps the faintest possible attempt at hand- 
pressing. But if so, it was all on one side. To such over- 
tures as that Griselda Grantly was as cold as any Diana. 

But, little as all this was, it was sufficient to All Lady 
Lufton’s mind and heart. No mother with six daughters 
was ever more anxious to get them off* her hands than 
Lady Lufton was to see her son married — married, that is, 
to some girl of the right sort. And now it really did seem 
as though he were actually going to comply with her wish- 
es. She had watched him during the whole evening, pain- 
fully endeavoring not to be observed in doing so. She 
had seen Lord Dumbello’s failure and wrath, and she had 
seen her son’s victory and pride. Could it be the case that 
he had already said something which was still allowed to 
be indecisive only through Griselda’s coldness? Might 
it not be the case that, by some judicious aid on her part, 
that Indecision might be turned into certainty, and that 
coldness into warmth ? But then any such interference re- 
quires so delicate a touch, as Lady Lufton was well aware. 


228 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“ Have you had a pleasant evening Lady Lufton said, 
when she and Griselda were seated together with their 
feet on the fender of her ladyship’s dressing-room. Lady 
Lufton had especially invited her guest into this, her most 
private sanctum, to which, as a rule, none had admittance 
hut her daughter, and sometimes Fanny Hoharts. But to 
what sanctum might not such a daughter-in-law as Grisel- 
da have admittance ? 

“ Oh yes — very,” said Griselda. ^ 

“ It seemed to me that you bestowed most of your smiles 
on Ludovic.” And Lady Lufton put on a look of good 
pleasure that such should have been the case. 

“Oh ! I don’t know,” said Griselda; “I did dance with 
him two or three times.” 

“Not once too often to please me, my dear. I like to 
see Ludovic dancing with my friends.” 

“ I am sure I am very much obliged to you. Lady Luf- 
ton.” 

“ Not at all, my dear. I don’t know where he could get 
so nice a partner.” And then she paused a moment, not 
feeling how far she might go. In the mean time Griselda 
sat still, staring at the hot coals. “ Indeed,! know that he 
admires you very much,” continued Lady Lufton. 

“ Oh no, I am sure he doesn’t,” said Griselda ; and then 
there was another pause. 

“ I can only say this,” said Lady Lufton, “ that if he does 
do so — and I believe he does — it would give me very great 
pleasure ; for you know, my dear, that I am very fond of 
you myself.” 

“ Oh ! thank you,” said Griselda, and stared at the coals 
more perseveringly than before. 

“ He is a young man of a most excellent disposition — 
though he is my own son, I will say that — and if there 
should be any thing between you and him — ” 

“There isn’t, indeed. Lady Lufton.” 

“ But if there ever should be, I should be delighted to 
think that Ludovic had made so good a choice.” 

“ But there will never be any thing of the sort, I’m sure. 
Lady Lufton, He is not thinking of such a thing in the 
least.” ^ 

“Well, perhaps he may some day. And now good- 
night, my dear.” 

“ Good-night, Lady Lufton.” And Griselda kissed her 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


229 


with the utmost composure, and betook herself to her own 
bedroom. Before she retired to sleep she looked carefully 
to her dilferent articles of dress, discovering what amount 
of damage the evening’s wear and tear might have inflicted. 


CHAPTER XXL 

WHY PUCK, THE PONY, WAS BEATEN. 

Maek Robaets returned home the day after the scene 
at the. Albany considerably relieved in spirit. He now felt 
that he might accept the stall without discredit to himself 
as a clergyman in doing so. Indeed, after what Mr. Sow- 
erby had said, and after Lord Lufton’s assent to it, it would 
have been madness, he considered, to decline it. And then, 
too, Mr. Sowerby’s promise about the bills was very com- 
fortable to him. After all, might it not be possible that he 
might get rid of all these troubles with no other drawback 
than that of having to pay £130 for a horse that was well 
worth the money ? 

On the day after his return he received proper authentic 
tidings of his presentation to the prebend. He was, in 
fact, already prebendary, or would be as soon as the dean 
and chapter had gone through the form of instituting him 
in his stall. The income was already his own ; and the 
house also would be given up to him in a week’s time — a 
part of the arrangement with which he would most will- 
ingly have dispensed had it been at all possible to do so. 
His wife congratulated him nicely, with open aflection, and 
apparent satisfaction at the arrangement. The enjoyment’ 
of one’s own happiness at such windfalls depends so much 
on the free and freely expressed enjoyment of others! 
Lady Lufton’s congratulations had nearly made him throw 
up the whole thing ; but his wife’s smiles re-encouraged 
him; and Lucy’s warm and eager joy made him feel quite 
delighted with Mr. Sowerby and the Duke of Omnium. 
And then that splendid animal. Dandy, came home to the 
Parsonage stables, much to the delight of the groom and 
gardener, and of the assistant stable-boy, who had been al- 
lowed to creep into the establishment, unawares as it were, 
since “ master” had taken so keenly to hunting. But this 
satisfaction was not shared in the drawing-room. The 
horse was seen on his first journey round to the stable 


230 


FKAMLEY PAESOXAGE. 


gate, and questions were immediately asked. It was a 
horse, Mark said, “ which he had bought from Mr. Sower- 
by some little time since with the object of obliging him. 
He, Mark, intended to sell him again as soon as he could 
do so judiciously.” This, as I have said above, was not 
satisfactory. Neither of the two ladies at Framley Par- 
sonage knew much about horses, or of the manner in which 
one gentleman might think it proper to oblige another by 
purchasing the superfluities of his stable ; but they did both 
feel that there were horses enough in the Parsonage stable 
without Dandy, and that the purchasing of a hunter with 
the view of immediately selling him again was, to say the 
least of it, an operation hardly congenial with the usual 
tastes and pursuits of a clergyman. 

“I hope you did not give very much money for him, 
Mark,” said Fanny. 

“ Not more than I shall get again,” said Mark ; and Fan- 
ny saw from the form of his countenance that she had bet- 
ter not pursue the subject any farther at that moment. 

“I suppose I shall have to go into residence almost im- 
mediately,” said Mark, recurring to the more agreeable 
subject of the stall. 

“ And shall we all have to go and live at Barchester at 
once ?” asked Lucy. 

“ The house will not be furnished, will it, Mark ?” said 
his wife. “ I don’t know how we shall get on.” 

“Don’t frighten yourselves. I shall take lodgings in 
Barchester.” 

“ And we shall not see you all the time,” said Mrs. Ro- 
•barts with dismay. But the prebendary explained that he 
would be backward and forward at Framley every week, 
and that, in all probability, he would only sleep at Bar- 
chester on the Saturdays and Sundays — and, perhaps, not 
always then. 

“ It does not seem very hard work, that of a prebendary,” 
said Lucy.” 

“ But it is very dignified,” said Fanny. “ Prebendaries 
are dignitaries of the Church — are they not, Mark?” 

“ Decidedly,” said he ; “ and their wives also, by special 
canon law. The worst of it is that both of them are obliged 
to wear wigs.” 

^ “ Shall you have a hat, Mark, with curly things at the 
side, and strings through to hold them up ?” asked Lucy. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


231 


“ I fear that does not come within my perquisites.” 

“Nor a rosette? Then I shall never believe that you 
are a dignitary. Do you mean to say that you will wear 
a hat like a common parson — like Mr. Crawley, for in- 
stance ?” 

“Well, I believe I may give a twist to the leaf; but I 
am by no means sure till I shall have consulted the dean 
in chapter.” 

And thus at the Parsonage they talked over the good 
things that were coming to them, and endeavored to forget 
the new horse, and the hunting-boots that had been used 
so often during the last winter, and Lady Lufton’s altered 
countenance. It might be that the evils would vanish 
away, and the good things alone remain to them. 

It was now the month of April, and the fields were be- 
ginning to look green, and the wind had got itself out of 
the east, and was soft and genial, and the early spring flow- 
ers were showing their bright colors in the Parsonage gar- 
den, and all things were sweet and pleasant. This Avas a 
period of the year that Avas usually dear to Mrs. Robarts. 
Her husband Avas ahvays a better parson Avhen the Avarm 
months came than he had been during the Avinter. The 
distant county friends Avhom she did not knoAV and of Avhom 
she did not approve Avent aAvay Avhen the spring came, leaA^- 
ing their houses innocent and empty. The parish duty Avas 
better attended to, and perhaps domestic duties also. At 
such period he Avas a jDattern parson and a pattern husband, 
atoning to his oavii conscience for past shortcomings by 
present zeal. And then, though she had never acknoAvl- 
edged it to herself, the absence of her dear friend Lady 
Lufton Avas perhaps in itself not disagreeable. Mrs. Ro- 
barts did love Lady Lufton heartily ; but it must be ac- 
knoAvledged of her ladyship that, Avith all her good quali- 
ties, she Avas inclined to be masterful. She liked to rule, 
and she made people feel that she liked it. Mrs. Robarts 
AA^ould never have confessed that she labored under a sense 
of thraldom, but perhaps she Avas mouse enough to enjoy 
the temporary absence of her kind-hearted cat. When 
Lady Lufton Avas aAvay, Mrs. Robarts herself had more 
play in the parish. 

And Mark also Avas not unhappy, though he did not find 
it practicable immediately to turn Dandy into money. In- 
deed, just at this moment, Avhen he Avas a good deal over 


232 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


at Barchester, going through those deep mysteries and 
rigid ecclesiastical examinations which are necessary be- 
fore a clergyman can become one of a chapter, Dandy was 
rather a thorn, in his side. Those wretched bills were to 
come due early in May, and before the end of April Sow- 
erby wrote to him saying that he was doing his utmost to 
provide for the evil day ; but that, if the price of Dandy 
could be remitted to him at once^ it would greatly facili- 
tate his object. Nothing could be more different than Mr. 
Sowerby’s tone about money at different times. When he 
wanted to raise the wind, every thing was so important ; 
haste and superhuman efforts, and men running to and fro 
with blank acceptances in their hands, could alone stave 
off the crack of doom ; but at other times, when retaliatory 
applications were made to him, he could prove with the 
easiest voice and most jaunty manner that every thing was 
quite serene. Now, at this period, he was in that mood 
of superhuman efforts, and he called loudly for the hundred 
and thirty pounds for Dandy. After what had passed, 
Mark could not bring himself to say that he Avould pay 
nothing till the bills were safe, and therefore, with the as- 
sistance of Mr. Forrest of the Bank, he did remit the price 
of Dandy to his friend Sowerby in London. 

And Lucy Robarts — we must now say a word of her. 
We have seen how on that occasion, when the world was 
at her feet, she had sent her noble suitor away, not only 
dismissed, but so dismissed that he might be taught never 
again to offer to her the sweet incense of his vows. She 
had declared to him plainly that she did not love him and 
could not love him, and had thus thrown away not only 
riches, and honor, and high station, but more than that — 
much worse than that — she had flung away from her the 
lover to whose love her warm heart clung. That her love 
did cling to him she knew even then, and owned more thor- 
oughly as soon as he was gone. So much her pride had 
done for her, and that strong resolve that Lady Lufton 
should not scowl on her and tell her that she had entrap- 
ped her son. 

I know it will be said of Lord Lufton himself that, put- 
ting aside his peerage and broad acres, and handsome, son- 
sy face, he was not worth a girl’s care and love. That will 
be said because people think that heroes in books should 
be so much better than heroes got up for the world’s com- 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


233 


mon wear and tear. I may as well confess that of absolute, 
true heroism there was only a moderate admixture in Lord 
Lufton’s composition ; but what would the world come to 
if none but absolute true heroes were to be thought wor- 
thy of women’s love? What would the men do? and 
what — oh ! what would become of the women ? Lucy 
Robarts, in her heart, did not give her dismissed lover 
credit for much more heroism than did truly appertain to 
him — did not, perhaps, give him full credit for a certain 
amount of heroism which did really appertain to him ; but, 
nevertheless, she would have been very glad to take him 
could she have done so without wounding her pride. 

That girls should not marry for money we are all agreed. 
A lady who can sell herself for a title or an estate, for an 
income or a set of family diamonds, treats herself as a farm- 
er treats his sheep and oxen — makes hardly more of her- 
self, of her own inner self, in which are comprised a mind 
and soul, than the poor wretch of her own sex who earns 
her bread in the lowest stage of degradation. But a title, 
and an estate, and an income, are matters which will weigh 
in the balance with all Eve’s daughters, as they do with all 
Adam’s sons. Pride of place, and the power of living well 
in front of the world’s eye, are dear to us all — are doubt- 
less intended to be dear. Only, in acknowledging so much, 
let us remember that there are prices at which these good 
things may be too costly. Therefore, being desirous, too, 
of telling the truth in this matter, I must confess that Lucy 
did speculate with some regret on what it would have been 
to be Lady Lufton. To have been the wife of such a man, 
the owner of such a heart, the mistress of such a destiny, 
what more or what better could the world have done for 
her ? And now she had thrown all that aside because she 
would not endure that Lady Lufton should call her a schem- 
ing, artful girl ! Actuated by that fear, she had repulsed 
him with a falsehood, though the matter was one on which 
it was so terribly expedient that she should tell the truth. 

And yet she was cheerful with her brother and sister-in- 
law. It was when she was quite alone — at night in her 
own room, or in her solitary walks — that a single silent 
tear would gather in the corner of her eye and gradually 
moisten her eyelids. “ She never told her love,” nor did 
she allow concealment to “ feed on her damask cheek.” In 
all her employments, in her ways about the house, and her 


234 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


accustomed quiet mirth, she was the same as ever. In this 
she showed the peculiar strength which God had given her. 
But not the less did she in truth mourn for her lost love 
and spoiled ambition. 

“We are going to drive over to Hogglestock this morn- 
ing,” Fanny said one day at breakfast. “ I suppose, Mark, 
you won’t go with us ?” 

“ Well, no, I think not. The pony carriage is wretched 
for three.” 

“ Oh, as for that, I should have thought the new horse 
might have been able to carry you as far as that. I heard 
you say you wanted to see Mr. Crawley.” 

“ So I do ; and the new horse, as you call him, shall carry 
me there to-morrow. Will you say that I’ll be over about 
twelve o’clock?” 

“You had better say earlier, as he is always out about 
the parish.” 

“Very well, say eleven. It is parish business about 
which I am going, so it need not irk his conscience to stay 
in for me.” 

“Well, Lucy, we must drive ourselves, that’s all. You 
shall be charioteer going, and then we’ll change coming 
back.” To all which Lucy agreed, and as soon as their 
work in the school was over they started. 

Not a word had been spoken between them about Lord 
Lufton since that evening, now more than a month ago, on 
which they had been walking together in the garden. Lucy 
had so demeaned herself on that occasion as to make her 
sister-in-law quite sure that there had been no love pas- 
sages up to that time, and nothing had since occurred 
which had created any suspicion in Mrs. Robarts’ mind. 
She had seen at once that all the close intimacy between 
them was over, and thought that every thing was as it 
should be. 

“ Do you know, I have an idea,” she said in the pony 
carriage that day, “that Lord Lufton will marry Griselda 
Grantly.” 

Lucy could not refrain from giving a little check at the 
reins which she was holding, and she felt that the blood 
rushed quickly to her heart. But she did not betray her- 
self. “ Perhaps he may,” she said, and then gave the pony 
a little touch with her whip. 

“ Oh, Lucy, I w^on’t have Puck beaten. He was going 
very nicely.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


235 


“I beg Puck’s pardon. But you see, when one is trust- 
ed with a whip, one feels such a longing to use it.” 

“ Oh, but you should keep it still. I feel almost certain 
that Lady Lufton would like such a match.” 

‘‘ I dare say she might. Miss Grantly will have a large 
fortune, I believe.” 

“ It is not that altogether ; but she is the sort of young 
lady that Lady Lufton likes. She is ladylike and very 
beautiful — ” 

“ Come, Fanny !” 

“ I really think she is ; not what I should call lovely, 
you know, but very beautiful. And then she is quiet and 
reserved; she does not require excitement, and I am sure 
is conscientious in the performance of her duties.” 

“Very conscientious, I have no doubt,” said Lucy, with 
something like a sneer in her tone. “ But the question, I 
suppose, is whether Lord Lufton likes her.” 

“ I think he does — in a sort of way. He did not talk to 
her so much as he did to you — ” 

“ Ah ! that was all Lady Lufton’s fault, because she 
didn’t have him properly labeled.” 

“ There does not seem to have been much harm done ?” 

“ Oh ! by God’s mercy, very little. As for me, I shall 
get over it in three or four years, I don’t doubt — that’s if 
I can get ass’s milk and change of air.” 

“ We’ll take you to Barchester for that. But, as I was 
saying, I really do think Lord Lufton likes Griselda Grantly.” 

“ Then I really do think that he has uncommon bad 
taste,” said Lucy, with a reality in her voice differing very 
much from the tone of banter she had hitherto used. 

“ What, Lucy !” said her sister-in-law, looking at her. 
“ Then I fear we shall really want the ass’s milk.” 

“Perhaps, considering my position, I ought to know 
nothing of Lord Lufton, for you say that it is very danger- 
ous for young ladies to know young gentlemen. But I do 
know enough of him to understand that he ought not to 
like such a girl as Griselda Grantly. He ought to know 
that she is a mere automaton, cold, lifeless, spiritless, and 
even vapid. There is, I believe, nothing in her mentally, 
whatever may be her moral excellences. To me she is 
more absolutely like a statue than any other human being 
I ever saw. To sit still and be admired is all that she de- 
sires ; and if she can not get that, to sit still and not be ad- 


236 


FJIAMLEY TAESONAGE. 


niircd would almost suffice for her. I do not worship Lady 
Luftoii as you do, but I think quite well enough of her to 
wonder that she should choose such a girl as that for her 
son’s wife. That she does wish it I do not doubt ; but I 
shall indeed be surprised if he wishes it also.” And then, 
as she finished her speech, Lucy again flogged the pony. 
This she did in vexation, because she felt that the telltale 
blood had sufiused her face. 

Why, Lucy, if he were your brother you could not be 
more eager about it.” 

“No, I could not. He is the only man friend with whom 
I w'as ever intimate, and I can not bear to think that he 
should throw himself away. It’s horridly improper to care 
about such a thing, I have no doubt.” 

“ I think we might acknowledge that if he and his mother 
are both satisfied, we may be satisfied also.” 

“ I shall not be satisfied. It’s no use your looking at me, 
Fanny. You will make me talk of it, and I won’t tell a lie 
on the subject. I do like Lord Lufton very much, and I 
do dislike Griselda Grantly almost as much ; therefore I 
shall not be satisfied if they become man and wife. How- 
ever, I do not suppose that either of them will ask my con- 
sent, nor is it probable that Lady Lufton will do so.” And 
then they went on for perhaps a quarter of a mile without 
speaking. 

“ Poor Puck !” at last Lucy said. “ He sha’n’t be whip- 
ped any more, shall he, because Miss Grantly looks like a 
statue? And, Fanny, don’t tell Mark to put me into a 
lunatic asylum. I also know a hawk from a heron, and 
that’s why I don’t like to see such a very unfitting mar- 
riage.” There was then nothing more said on the subject, 
and in two minutes they arrived at the house of the Hog- 
glestock clergyman. 

Mrs. Crawley had brought two children with her when 
she came from the Cornish curacy to Hogglestock, and two 
other babies had been added to her cares since then. One 
of these was now ill with croup, and it was with the object 
of oflering to the mother some comfort and solace that the 
present visit was made. The two ladies got down from 
their carriage, having obtained the services of a boy to 
hold Puck, and soon found themselves in Mrs. Crawley’s 
single sitting-room. She was sitting there with her foot 
on the board of a child’s cradle, rocking it, while an infant 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


237 


about three months old was lying in her lap ; for the elder 
one, who w^as the sutferer, had in her illness usurped the 
baby’s place. Two other children, considerably older, were 
also in the room. The eldest was a girl, perhaps nine years 
of age, and the other a boy three years her junior. These 
were standing at their father’s elbow, who was studiously 
endeavoring to initiate them in the early mysteries of gram- 
mar. To tell the truth, Mrs. Robarts w^ould much have 
preferred that Mr. Crawley had not been there, for she had 
with her and about her certain contraband articles, pres- 
ents for the children, as they were to be called, but in truth 
relief for that poor, much-tasked mother, which they knew 
it would be impossible to introduce in Mr. Crawley’s pres- 
ence. 

She, as we have said, was not quite so gaunt, not alto- 
gether so haggard as in the latter of those dreadful Cornish 
days. Lady Lufton and Mrs. Arabin between them, and 
the scanty comfort of their improved, though still wretched 
income, had done something toward bringing her back to 
the Avorld in which she had lived in the soft days of her 
childhood. But even the liberal stipend of a hundred and 
thirty pounds a year — liberal according to the scale by 
which the incomes of clergymen in some of our new dis- 
tricts are now. apportioned — would not admit of a gentle- 
man with his wife and four children living wnth the ordi- 
nary comforts of an artisan’s family. As regards the mere 
eating and drinking, the amounts of butcher’s meat and 
tea and butter, they, of course, were used in quantities 
wdiich any artisan w’ould have regarded as compatible only 
wdth demi-starvation. Better clothing for her children 
w^as necessary, and better clothing for him. As for her 
owm raiment, the wdves of few artisans would have been 
content to put up wdth Mrs. Crawley’s best gown. The 
stuff of wdiich it was made had been paid for by her moth- 
er when she, with much difficulty, bestow^ed upon her daugh- 
ter her modest wedding trousseau. 

Lucy had never seen Mrs. Crawley. These visits to 
Hogglestock w^ere not frequent, and had generally been 
made by Lady Lufton and Mrs. Robarts together. It was 
knowm that they w^ere distasteful to Mr. Crawley, w’ho felt 
a savage satisfaction in being left to himself. It may al- 
most be said of him that he felt angry wdth those who re- 
lieved him, and he had certainly never as yet foi'given the 


238 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Dean of Barchester for paying his debts. The dean had 
also given him liis present living ; and, consequently, his 
old friend was not now so dear to him as when in old days 
he would come down to that farm-house almost as penni- 
less as the curate himself. Then they Avould walk together 
for hours along the rock-bound shore, listening to the waves, 
discussing deep polemical mysteries, sometimes with hot 
fury, then again with tender, loving charity, but always 
Avith a mutual acknowledgment of each other’s truth. Now 
they lived comparatively near together, but no opportuni- 
ties arose for such discussions. At any rate, once a quar- 
ter Mr. Crawley was pressed by his old friend to visit him 
at the deanery, and Dr. Arabin had promised that no one 
else should be in the house if Mr. Crawley objected to so- 
ciety. But this was not Avhat he wanted. The finery and 
grandeur of the deanery, and the comfort of that Avarm, 
snug library, would silence him at once. Why did not Dr. 
Arabin come out there to Hogglestock, and tramp Avith 
him through the dirty lanes as they used to tramp ? Then 
he could have enjoyed himself ; then he could have talked ; 
then old days Avould have come back to them. But now ! 
“ Arabin ahvays rides on a sleek, fine horse nowadays,” he 
once said to his Avife, Avith a sneer. His poverty had been 
so terrible to himself that it was not in his heart to love a 
rich friend. 


CHAPTER XXH. 

HOGGLESTOCK PARSONAGE. 

At the end of the last chapter, Ave left Lucy Robarts 
Avaiting for an introduction to Mrs. CraAvley, Avho Avas sit- 
ting Avith one baby in her lap, Avhile she Avas rocking an- 
other Avho lay in a cradle at her feet. Mr. Crawley, in the 
mean Avhile, had risen from his seat Avith his finger betAveen 
the leaves of an old grammar out of Avhich he had been 
teaching his two elder children. The whole Crawley fam- 
ily Avas thus before them Avhen Mrs. Robarts and Lucy en- 
tered the sitting-room. 

“ This is my sister-in-1 a av, Lucy,” said Mrs. Robarts. 
“ Pray don’t move noAV, Mrs. Crawley ; or if you do, let 
me take baby.” And she put out her arms and took the 
infant into them, making him quite at home there; for she 




THE CRAW LEV TAMILA'. 




FRAMLEY FARSONAGE. 


241 


had work of this kind of her own at home, which she by 
no means neglected, though the attendance of nurses was 
more plentiful with her than at Hogglestock. 

Mrs. Crawley did get up, and told Lucy that she was 
glad to see her, and Mr. Crawley came forward, grammar 
in hand, looking humble and meek. Could we have looked 
into the innermost spirit of him and his life’s partner, we 
should have seen that mixed with the pride of his poverty 
there was some feeling of disgrace that he was poor, but 
that with her, regarding this matter, there was neither 
pride nor shame. The realities of life had become so stern 
to her that the outward aspects of them were as nothing. 
She would have liked a new gown because it would have 
been useful, but it would have been nothing to her if all the 
county knew that the one in which she went to church had 
been turned three times. It galled him, however, to think 
that he and his were so poorly dressed. 

“ I am afraid you can hardly find a chair. Miss Robarts,” 
said Mr. Crawley. 

“ Oh yes, there is nothing here but this young gentle- 
man’s library,” said Lucy, moving a pile of ragged, cover- 
less books on to the table. “I hope he’ll forgive me for 
moving them.” 

“ They are not Bob’s — at least, not the most of them, but 
mine,” said the girl. 

“ But some of them are mine,” said, the boy ; “ ain’t 
they, Grace ?” 

“And are you a great scholar?” asked Lucy, drawing 
the child to her. 

“ I don’t know,” said Grace, with a sheepish face. “ I 
am in Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs.” 

“ Greek Delectus and the irregular verbs !” And Lucy 
put up her hands with astonishment. 

“ And she knows an ode of Horace all by heart,” said 
Bob. 

“An ode of Horace!” said Lucy, still holding the young 
shamefaced female prodigy close to her knees. 

“ It is all that I can give them,” said Mr. Crawley, apolo- 
getically. ‘‘A little scholarship is the only fortune that 
has come in my way, and I endeavor to share that with 
my children.” 

“ I believe men say that it is the best fortune any of us 
can have,” said Lucy, thinking, however, in her own mind, 

L 


242 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


that Horace and the irregular Greek words savored too 
much of precocious forcing in a young lady of nine years 
old. But, nevertheless, Grace was a pretty, simple-looking 
girl, and clung to her ally closely, and seemed to like being 
fondled. So that Lucy anxiously wished that Mr. Crawley 
could be got rid of and the presents produced. 

“ I hope you have left Mr. Robarts quite well,” said Mr. 
Crawley, with a stiff, ceremonial voice, differing very much 
from that in which he had so energetically addressed his 
brother clergyman when they were alone together in the 
study at Framley. 

“ He is quite well, thank you. I suppose you have heard 
of his good fortune ?” 

“Yes, I have heard of it,” said Mr. Crawley, gravely. 
“ I hope that his promotion may tend in every way to his 
advantage here and hereafter.” 

It seemed, however, to be manifest, from the manner in 
which he expressed his kind wishes, that his hojoes and ex- 
pectations did not go hand in hand together. 

“ By-the-by, he desired us to say that he will call here to- 
morrow — at about eleven, didn’t he say, Fanny ?” 

“ Yes ; he wishes to see you about some parish business, 
I think,” said Mrs. Robarts, looking up for a moment from 
the anxious discussion in which she was already engaged 
with Mrs. Crawley on nursery matters. 

“ Pray tell him,” said Mr. Crawley, “ that I shall be hap- 
py to see him ; though, perhaps, now that new duties have 
been thrown upon him, it will be better that I should visit 
liim at Framley.” 

“His new duties do not disturb him much as yet,” said 
Lucy. “ And his riding over here will be no trouble to him.” 

“Yes; there he has the advantage over me. I unfor- 
tunately have no horse.” 

And then Lucy began petting the little boy, and by de- 
grees slipped a small bag of gingerbread nuts out of her 
muff into his hands. She had not the patience necessary 
for waiting, as had her sister-in-law. 

The boy took the bag, peeped into it, and then looked 
up into her face. 

“ What is that. Bob ?” said Mr. Crawley. 

“ Gingerbread,” faltered Bobby, feeling that a sin had 
been committed, though probably feeling also that he him- 
self could hardly as yet be accounted as deeply guilty. 


FJJAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


243 


“ Miss Robarts,” said the father, “ we are very much 
obliged to you ; but our children are hardly used to such 
things.” 

“ I am a lady Avith a Aveak mind, Mr. CraAvley, and ah 
Avays carry things of this sort about Avith me Avhen I go to 
visit children ; so you must forgive me, and allow your 
little boy to accept them.” 

“ Oh, certainly. Bob, my child, give the bag to your 
mamma, and she Avill let you and Grace have them one at 
a time.” And then the bag, in a solemn manner, Avas car- 
ried over to their mother, Avho, taking it from her son’s 
hands, laid it high on a book-shelf. 

“ And not one noAV ?” said Lucy Robarts, A^ery piteous- 
ly. “ Don’t be so hard, Mr. Crawley — not upon them, but 
upon me. May I not learn whether they are good of their 
kind?” 

“ I am sure they are very good ; but I think their mam- 
ma Avill prefer their being put by for the present.” 

This Avas very discouraging to Lucy. If one small bag 
of gingerbread-nuts created so great a difficulty, hoAV Avas 
she to dispose of the pot of guava jelly and box of bonbons 
Avhich Avere still in her muff, or hoAV distribute the packet 
of oranges Avith Avhich the pony carriage Avas laden ? And 
there Avas jelly for the sick child, and chicken broth, Avhich 
Avas, indeed, another jelly ; and, to tell the truth openly, 
there Avas also a joint of fresh pork, and a basket of eggs 
from the Framley Parsonage farm-yard, which Mrs. Robarts 
Avas to introduce, should she find herself capable of doing 
so, but Avhich Avould certainly be cast out Avith utter scorn 
by Mr. CraAvley if tendered in his immediate presence. 
There had also been a suggestion as to adding tAvo or three 
bottles of port ; but the courage of the ladies had failed 
them on that head, and the AAune Avas not now added to 
their difficulties. 

Lucy found it very difficult to keep up a conversation 
Avith Mr. CraAvley — the more so, as Mrs. Robarts and Mrs. 
CraAvley j)resently AvithdreAV into a bedroom, taking the two 
younger children Avith them. “Hoav unlucky,” thought 
Lucy, “ that she has not got my muff with her !” But the 
muff lay in her lap, ponderous ^viih its rich inclosures. 

“ I suppose you will live In Barchester for a portion of 
the year noAV,” said Mr. CraAvley. 

“ I really do not knoAV as yet ; Mark talks of taking lodg- 
ings for his first month’s residence.” 


244 


fba:mley parsonage. 


“ But he will have the house, will he not ?” 

“ Oh yes, I suppose so.” 

‘‘ I fear he will find it interfere with his own parish — - 
with his general utility there : the schools, for instance.” 

“ Mark thinks that, as he is so near, he need not be much 
absent from Framley, even during his residence. And then 
Lady Lufton is so good about the schools.” 

“ Ah ! yes ; but Lady Lufton is not a clergyman. Miss 
Robarts.” 

It was on Lucy’s tongue to say that her ladyship was 
pretty nearly as bad, but she stopped herself. 

At this moment Providence sent great relief to Miss 
Robarts in the shape of Mrs. Crawley’s red-armed maid-of- 
all-work, who, walking up to her master, Avhispered into 
his ear that he was wanted. It was the time of day at 
which his attendance was always required in his parish 
school; and that attendance being so punctually given, 
those who wanted him looked for him there at this hour, 
and if he were absent, did not scruple to send for him. 

“ Miss Robarts, I am afraid you must excuse me,” said 
he, getting up and taking his hat and stick. Lucy begged 
that she might not be at all in the way, and already began 
to speculate how she might best unload her treasures. 
“ Will you make my compliments to Mrs. Robarts, and say 
that I am sorry to miss the pleasure of wishing her good- 
by ? But I shall probably see her as she passes the school- 
house.” And then, stick in hand, he walked forth, and 
Lucy fancied that Bobby’s eyes immediately rested on the 
bag of gingerbread-nuts. 

“ Bob,” said she, almost in a whisper, “ do you like sugar- 
plums ?” 

“Very much indeed,” said Bob, with exceeding gravity, 
and with his eye upon the window to see whether his fa- 
ther had passed. 

“Then come here,” said Lucy. But as she spoke the 
door again opened, and Mr. Crawley reappeared. “ I have 
left a book behind me,” he said ; and, coming back through 
the room, he took up the well-worn prayer-book which ac- 
companied him in all his wanderings through the parish. 
Bobby, when he saw his father, had retreated a few steps 
back, as also did Grace, Avho, tb confess the truth, had been 
attracted by the sound of sugar-plums, in spite of the irreg- 
ular verbs. And Lucy withdrew her hand from her muff, 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


245 


and looked guilty. Was she not deceiving the good man 
— nay, teaching his own children to deceive him ? But 
there are men made of such stuif that an angel could hard- 
ly live with them without some deceit. 

“ Papa’s gone now,” whispered Bobby ; “ I saw him turn 
round the corner.” He, at any rate, had learned his les- 
son, as it was natural that he should do. 

Some one else, also, had learned that papa was gone ; for 
while Bob and Grace were still counting the big lumps of 
sugar-candy, each employed the while for inward solace 
with an inch of barley-sugar, the front door opened, and a 
big basket, and a bundle done up in a kitchen-cloth, made 
surreptitious entrance into the house, and were quickly un- 
packed by Mrs. Robarts herself on the table in Mrs. Craw- 
ley’s bedroom. 

“ I did venture to bring them,” said Fanny, with a look 
of shame, “ for I know how a sick child occupies the whole 
house.” 

“Ah! my friend,” saidMrs. Crawley, taking hold of Mrs. 
Robarts’ arm and looking into her face, “ that sort of shame 
is over with me. God has tried us with want, and for my 
children’s sake I am glad of such relief.” 

“ But will he be angry ?” 

“ I will manage it. Hear Mrs. Robarts, you must not be 
surprised at him. His lot is sometimes very hard to bear : 
such things are so much worse for a man than for a 
woman.” 

Fanny was not quite prepared to admit this in her own 
heart, but she made no reply on that head. “I am sure I 
hope we may be able to be of use to you,” she said, “ if 
you will only look upon me as an old friend, and write to 
me if you Avant me. I hesitate to come frequently for fear 
that I should offend him.” 

And then, by degrees, there w^as confidence between 
them, and the poverty-stricken helpmate of the perpetual 
curate was able to speak of the weight of her burden to the 
well-to-do young wife of the Barchester prebendary. “ It 
was hard,” the former said, “to feel herself so different 
from the wives of other clergymen around her — to know 
that they lived softly, while she, with all the work of her 
hands, and unceasing struggle of her energies, could hardly 
manage to place wholesome food before her husband and 
children. It was a terrible tiling — a grievous thing to 


246 


PKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


think of, that all the work of her mind should be given np 
to such subjects as these. But, nevertheless, she could 
bear it,” she said, “ as long as he would carry himself like 
a man, and face his lot boldly before the Avorld.” And 
then she told how he had been better there at Hogglestock 
than in their former residence down in Cornwall, and in 
warm language she expressed her thanks to the friend who 
had done so much for them. 

“ Mrs. Arabin told me that she was so anxious you should 
go to them,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

“ Ah ! yes ; but that, I fear, is impossible. The children, 
you know, Mrs. Robarts.” 

“ I Avould take care of two of them for you.” 

“ Oh no, I could not punish you for your goodness in 
that way. But he would not go. He could go and leave 
me at home. Sometimes I have thought that it might be 
so, and I have done all in my power to persuade him. I 
have told him that if he could mix once more with the 
world — with the clerical world, you know, that he would 
be better fitted for the performance of his own duties. 
But he answers me angrily that it is impossible — that his 
coat is not fit for the dean’s table,” and Mrs. Crawley al- 
most blushed as she spoke of such a reason. 

“ What ! with an old friend like Dr. Arabin ? Surely 
that must be nonsense.” 

“ I know that it is. The dean would be glad to see him 
with any coat. But the fact is that he can not bear to 
enter the house of a rich man unless his duty calls him 
there.” 

“ But surely that is a mistake ?” 

“ It is a mistake. But what can I do ? I fear that he 
regards the rich as his enemies. He is pining for the solace 
of some friend to whom he could talk — for some equal, 
with a mind educated like his own, to whose thoughts he 
could listen, and to whom he could speak his own thoughts. 
But such a friend must be equal, not only in mind, but in 
purse ; and where can he ever find such a man as that ?” 

“ But you may get better preferment.” 

“ Ah ! no ; and if he did, we are hardly fit for it now. 
If I could think that I could educate my children — if I 
could only do something^ for my poor Grace — ” 

In answer to this Mrs. Robarts said a word or two, but 
not much. She resolved, however, that if she could get her 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


247 


husband’s leave, something should be done for Grace. 
Would it not be a good work ? and was it not incumbent 
on her to make some kindly use of all the goods with which 
Providence had blessed herself? 

And then they went back to the sitting-room, each again 
with a young child in her arms, Mrs. Crawley having stowed 
away in the kitchen the chicken broth, and the leg of pork, 
and the supply of eggs. Lucy had been engaged the while 
with the children ; and when the two married ladies en- 
tered, they found that a shop had been opened at which 
all manner of luxuries were being readily sold and pur- 
chased at marvelously easy prices; the guava jelly was 
there, and the oranges, and the sugar-plums, red, and yel- 
low, and striped ; and, moreover, the gingerbread had been 
taken down in the audacity of their commercial specula- 
tions, and the nuts were spread out upon a board, behind 
wliich Lucy stood as shop-girl, disposing of them for kisses. 

“ Mamma, mamma,” said Bobby, running up to his moth- 
er, “ you must buy something of her,” and he pointed with 
his fingers at the shop-girl. “ You must give her two kisses 
for that heap of barley-sugar.” Looking at Bobby’s mouth 
at the time, one 'would have said that his kisses might be 
dispensed with. 

When they were again in the pony carriage, behind the 
impatient Puck, and were well away from the door, Fanny 
was the first to speak. 

“ How very different those two are,” she said — “ differ- 
ent in their minds and in their spirit.” 

“ But how much higher toned is her mind than his ! 
How weak he is in many things, and how strong she is in 
every thing ! How false is his pride, and how false his 
shame !” 

“ But we must remember what he has to bear. It is not 
every one that can endure such a life as his without false 
l^ride and false shame.” 

“ But she has neither,” said Lucy. 

“ Because you have one hero in a family, does that give 
you a right to expect another ?” said Mrs. Robarts. “ Of 
all my own acquaintance, Mrs. Crawley, I think, comes 
nearest to heroism.” 

And then they passed by the Hogglestock school, and 
Mr. Crawley, when he heard the noise of the wheels, came 
out. 


248 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“ You have been very kind,” said he, “ to remain so long 
with my poor wife.” 

“We had a great many things to talk about after you 
went.” 

“ It is very kind of you, for she does not often see a 
friend nowadays. Will you have the goodness to tell Mr. 
Robarts that I shall be here at the school at eleven o’clock 
to-morrow ?” 

And then he bowed, taking off his hat to them, and they 
drove on. 

“ If he really does care about her comfort, I shall not 
think so badly of him,” said Lucy. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE TEIUMPH OF THE GIANTS. ^ 

And now, about the end of April, news arrived almost 
simultaneously in all quarters of the habitable globe that 
Avas terrible in its import to one of the chief persons of our 
history — some may think to the chief person in it. All 
high parliamentary people will doubtless so think, and the 
Avives and daughters of such. The Titans warring against 
the gods had been for a Avhile successful. Typhoeus and 
Mimas, Porphyrion and Rhoecus, the giant brood of old, 
steeped in ignorance and wedded to corruption, had scaled 
the heights of Olympus, assisted by that audacious flinger 
of deadly ponderous missiles, who stands ever ready armed 
Avith his terrific sling-^Supplehouse, the Enceladus of the 
press. And in this universal cataclasm of the starry coun- 
cils, what could a poor Diana do — Diana of the Petty Bag, 
but abandon her pride of place to some rude Orion ? In 
other words, the ministry had been compelled to resign, 
and Avith them Mr. Harold Smith. 

“ And so poor Harold is out before he has well tasted 
the sweets of office,” said Sowerby, Avriting to his friend 
the parson ; “ and, as far as I knoAV, the only piece of Church 
patronage which has fallen in the Avay of the ministry since 
he joined it has made its Avay down to Framley — to my 
great joy and contentment.” But it hardly tended to 
Mark’s joy and contentment on the same subject that he 
should be so often reminded of the benefit conferred upon 
him. 


FliAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


249 


Terrible was this break-down of the ministry, and^^espe- 
cially to Harold Smith, who to the last had had co^f ia 
in that theory of new blood. He could hardly beiieve' that 
a large majority of the House should vote against a gov- 
ernment which he had only just joined. “If we are to go 
on in this way,” he said to his young friend Green Walker, 
“the queen’s government can not be carried on.” That 
alleged difficulty as to carrying on the queen’s government 
has been frequently mooted in late years since a certain 
great man first introduced the idea. Nevertheless, the 
queen’s government is carried on, and the propensity and 
aptitude of men for this work seems to be not at all on the 
decrease. If we have but few young statesmen, it is be- 
cause the old stagers are so fond of the rattle of their harness. 

“ I really do not see how the queen’s government is to 
be carried on,” said Harold Smith to Green Walker, stand- 
ing in a corner of one of the lobbies of the House of Com- 
mons on the first of those days of awful interest, in which 
the queen was sending for one crack statesman after an- 
other, and some anxious men were beginning to doubt 
whether or no we should, in truth, be able to obtain the 
blessing of another cabinet. The gods had all vanished 
from their places. Would the giants be good enough to 
do any thing for us or no ? There were men who seemed 
to think that the giants would refuse to do any thing for 
us. “ The House will now be adjourned over till Monday, 
and I would not be in her majesty’s shoes for something,” 
said Mr. Harold Smith. 

“ By Jove ! no,” said Green Walker, who in these days 
was a stanch Harold Smithian, having felt a pride in join- 
ing himself on as a substantial support to a cabinet minis- 
ter. Had he contented himself with being merely a Brock- 
ite, he would have counted as nobody. “ By J ove ! no,” 
and Green Walker opened his eyes and shook his head as 
he thought of the perilous condition in which her majesty 

must be placed. “ I happen to know that Lord won’t 

join them unless he has the Foreign Office,” and he men- 
tioned some hundred-handed Gyas supposed to be of the 
utmost importance to the counsels of the Titans. 

“ And that, of course, is impossible. I don’t see what 
on earth they are to do. There’s Sidonia; they do say 
that he’s making some difficulty now.” Now Sidonia was 
another giant, supposed to be very powerful. 

L 2 


250 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ all know that the queen won’t see him,” said Green 

“ We ^who, being a member of Parliament for the Crewe 
Junction, and nephew to Lady Hartletop, of course had 
perfectly correct means of ascertaining what the queen 
would do and what she would not. 

“ The fact is,” said Harold Smith, recurring again to his 
owm situation as an ejected god, “that the House d.oes not 
in the least understand Avhat it is about — doesn’t know 
what it wants. The question I should like to ask them is 
this : Do they intend that the queen shall have a govern- 
ment, or do they not ? Are they prepared to support such 
men as Sidonia and Lord De Terrier ? If so, I am their 
obedient humble servant ; but I shall be very much sur- 
prised, that’s all.” Lord De Terrier was at this time rec- 
ognized by all men as the leader of the giants. 

“ And so shall I — deucedly surprised. They can’t do it, 
you know. There are the Manchester men. I ought to 
know something about them down in my country, and I 
say they can’t support Lord De Terrier. It wouldn’t be 
natural.” 

“ Natural ! Human nature has come to an end, I think,” 
said Harold Smith, wLo could hardly understand that the 
world should conspire to throw over a government wLich 
he had joined, and that, too, before the world had waited 
to see how much he w^ould do for it; “the fact is this. 
Walker, we have no longer among us any strong feeling of 
party.” 

“ No, not a d — ,” said Green Walker, who w^as very en- 
ergetic in his present political aspirations. 

“And till we can recover that, we shall never be able to 
have a government firm-seated and sure-handed. Nobody 
can count on men from one week to another. The very 
members who in one month place a minister in power, are 
the very first to vote against him in the next.” 

“We must put a stop to that sort of thing, otherv/ise 
we shall never do any good.” 

“ I don’t mean to deny that Brock was wrong Avith ref- 
erence to Lord Brittleback. I think that he Avas wrong, 
and I said so all through. But, heavens on earth — !” and, 
instead of completing his speech, Harold Smith turned 
away his head, and struck his hands together in token of 
his astonishment at the fatuity of the age. What he prob- 
ably meant to express was this : that if such a good deed 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


251 


as that late appointment made at the Petty Bag Office 
were not held sufficient to atone for that other evil deed 
to which he had alluded, there would be an end of all jus- 
tice in sublunary matters. Was no offense to be forgiven, 
even when so great virtue had been displayed ? 

“I attribute it all to Supplehouse,” said Green Walker, 
trying to console his friend. 

“ Yes,” said Harold Smith, now verging on the bounds 
of parliamentary eloquence, although he still spoke with 
bated breath, and to one solitary hearer, “ yes, we are be- 
coming the slaves of a mercenary and irresponsible press 
— of one single newspaper. There is a man endowed with 
no great talent, enjoying no public confidence, untrusted as 
a politician, and unheard of even as a writer by the world 
at large, and yet, because he is on the staff of the Jupiter^ 
he is able to overturn the government and throw the whole 
country into dismay. It is astonishing to me that a man 
like Lord Brock should allow himself to be so timid.” 
And, nevertheless, it was not yet a month since Harold 
Smith had been counseling with Supplehouse how a series 
of strong articles in the Jiipiter^ together with the expect- 
ed support of the Manchester men, might probably be ef- 
fective in hurling the minister from his seat. But at that 
time the minister had not revigorated himself with young 
blood. “ How the queen’s government is to bo carried on, 
that is the question now,” Harold Smith repeated — a diffi- 
culty which had not caused him much dismay at that 'pe- 
riod, about a month since, to which we have alluded. 

At this moment Sowerby and Supplehouse together join- 
ed them, having come out of the House, in which some un- 
important business had been completed after the ministers’ 
notice of adjournment. 

“ Well, Harold,” said Sowerby, “what do you say to 
your governor’s statement ?” 

“ I have nothing to say to it,” said Harold Smith, look- 
ing up very solemnly from under the penthouse of his hat, 
and perhaps rather savagely. Sowerby had supported the 
government at the late crisis, but why was he now seen 
herding with such a one as Supplehouse ? 

“He did it pretty well, I think,” said Sowerby. 

“Very well indeed,” said Supplehouse, “as he always 
does those sort of things. No man makes so good an ex- 
planation of circumstances, or comes out with so telling a 


252 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


personal statement. He ought to keep himself in reserve 
for those sort of things.” 

“ And who, in the mean time, is to carry on the queen’s 
government ?” said Harold Smith, looking very stern. 

“ That should be left to men of lesser mark,” said he of 
the Jupiter. “ The points as to which one really listens to 
a minister, the subjects about which men really care, are 
always personal. How many of us are truly interested as 
to the best mode of governing India? but in a question 
touching the character of a prime minister, we all muster 
together like bees round a sounding cymbal.” 

“That arises from envy, malice, and all uncharitable- 
ness,” said Harold Smith. 

“ Yes ; and from picking and stealing, evil speaking, ly- 
ing, and slandering,” said Mr. Sowerby. 

“We are so prone to desire and covet other men’s 
places,” said Supplehouse. 

“Some men are so,” said Sowerby; “but it is the evil 
speaking, Ivinsr, and slandering which does the mischief. 
Is it not, Harold?” 

“ And, in the mean time, how is the queen’s government 
to be carried on?” said Mr. Green Walker. 

On the following morning it was known that Lord De 
Terrier was with the queen at Buckingham Palace, and at 
about twelve a list of the new ministry was published, 
which must have been in the highest degree satisfactory to 
the whole brood of giants. Every son of Tellus was in- 
cluded in it, as were also very many of the daughters. But 
then, late in the afternoon. Lord Brock was again summon- 
ed to the palace, and it was thought in the West End 
among the clubs that the gods had again a chance. “ If 
only,” said the Purist., an evening paper which was sup- 
posed to be very much in the interest of Mr. Harold Smith, 
“if only Lord Brock can have the wisdom to place the 
right men in the right places. It was only the other day 
that he introduced Mr. Smith into his government. That 
this was a step in the right direction every one has ac- 
knowledged, though, unfortunately, it was made too late to 
prevent the disturbance which has since occurred. It now 
appears probable that his lordship will again have an op- 
portunity of selecting a list of statesmen with the view of 
carrying on the queen’s government, and it is to be hoped 
that such men as Mr. Smith may be placed in situations 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


253 


in which their talents, industry, and acknowledged official 
aptitudes may be of permanent service to the country.” 

Supplehouse, when he read this at the club with Mr. 
Sowerby at his elbow, declared that the style was too well 
marked to leave any doubt as to the author ; but we our- 
selves are not inclined to think that Mr. Harold Smith 
wrote the article himself, although it may be probable that 
he saw it in type. 

But the Jupiter the next morning settled the whole ques- 
tion, and made it known to the world that, in spite of all 
the sendings and resendings. Lord Brock and the gods 
were permanently out, and Lord He Terrier and the giants 
permanently in. That fractious giant who would only go 
to the Foreign Office had, in fact, gone to some sphere of 
much less important duty, and Sidonia, in spite of the whis- 
pered dislike of an illustrious personage, opened the cam- 
paign with all the full appanages of a giant of the highest 
standing. “ W e hope,” said the Jupiter^ “ that Lord Brock 
may not yet be too old to take a lesson. If so, the present 
decision of the House of Commons, and, we may say, of 
the country also, may teach him not to put his trust in such 
princes as Lord Brittleback, or such broken reeds as Mr. 
Harold Smith.” ow this parting blow we always thought 
to be exceedingly unkind, and altogether unnecessary on the 
part of Mr. Supplehouse. 

“ My dear,” said Mrs. Harold, when she first met Miss 
Dunstable after the catastrophe was known, “ how am 1 
possibly to endure this degradation ?” And she put her 
deeply-laced handkerchief up to her eyes. 

“ Christian resignation,” suggested Miss Dunstable. 

“ Fiddlestick !” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “ You million- 
naires always talk of Christian resignation, because you 
never are called on to resign any thing. If I had any 
Christian resignation, I shouldn’t have cared for such pomps 
and vanities. Think of it, my dear— a cabinet minister’s 
wife for only three weeks !” 

“ How does poor Mr. Smith endure it ?” 

‘‘ What ? Harold ? He only lives on the hope of venge- 
ance. When he has put an end to Mr. Supplehouse, he 
will be content to die.” 

And then there were farther explanations in both houses 
of Parliament which were altogether satisfactory. The 
high-bred, courteous giants assured the gods that they had 


254 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


piled Pelion on Ossa, and thus climbed up into power, very 
much in opposition to their own good wills ; for they, the 
giants themselves, preferred the sweets of dignified retire- 
ment. But the voice of the people had been too strong for 
them ; the effort had been made, not by themselves, but by 
others, who were determined that the giants should be at 
the head of afiTairs. Indeed, the spirit of the times was so 
clearly in favor of giants that there had been no alterna- 
tive. So said Briareus to the Lords, and Orion to the Com- 
mons. And then the gods were absolutely happy in ced- 
ing their places ; and so far were they from any unceles- 
tial envy or malice which might not be divine, that they 
l^romised to give the giants all the assistance in their pow- 
er in carrying on the work of government ; upon which the 
giants declared how deeply indebted they would be for 
such valuable counsel and friendly assistance. All this 
was delightful in the extreme ; but not the less did ordi- 
nary men seem to expect that the usual battle would go on 
in the old customary way. It is easy to love one’s enemy 
when one is making fine speeches, but so difficult to do so 
in the actual every-day work of life. 

But there was and always has been this peculiar good 
point about the giants, that they are never too proud to 
follow in the footsteps of the gods. If the gods, deliber- 
ating painfully together, have elaborated any skillful proj- 
ect, the giants are always willing to adopt it as their own, 
not treating the bantling as a foster-child, but praising it 
and pushing it so that men should regard it as the undoubt- 
ed ofispring of their own brains. Now just at this time 
there had been a plan much thought of for increasing the 
number of the bishops. Good active bishops were very 
desirable, and there was a strong feeling among certain ex- 
cellent Churchmen that there could hardly be too many of 
them. Lord Brock had his measure cut and dry. There 
should be a Bishop of Westminster to share the Herculean 
toils of the metropolitan prelate, and another up in the 
north to Christianize the mining interests and wash white 
the blackamoors of Newcastle — Bishop of Beverley he 
should be called. But, in opposition to this, the giants, it 
was known, had intended to put forth the whole measure 
of their brute force. More curates, they said, were want- 
ing, and district incumbents, not more bishops rolling in 
carriages. That bishops should roll in carriages was very 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


255 


good, but of such blessings the English world for the pres- 
ent had enough. And therefore Lord Brock and the gods 
had had much fear as to their little project. 

But now, immediately on the accession of the giants, it 
was known that the bishop bill was to be gone on with im- 
mediately. Some small changes would be effected, so that 
the bill should be gigantic rather than divine ; but the re- 
sult would be altogether the same. It must, however, be 
admitted that bishops appointed by ourselves maybe very 
good things, whereas those appointed by our adversaries 
will be any thing but good. And, no doubt, this feeling 
went a long way with the giants. Be that as it may, the 
new bishop bill was to be their first work of government, 
and it was to be brought forward and carried, and the new 
prelates selected and put into their chairs all at once — ^be- 
fore the grouse should begin to crow, and put an end to 
the doings of gods as well as giants. 

Among other minor effects arising from this decision 
was the following, that Archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly re- 
turned to London, and again took the lodgings in which 
they had before been staying. On various occasions, also, 
during the first week of this second sojourn. Dr. Grantly 
might be seen entering the ofiicial chambers of the First 
Lord of the Treasury. Much counsel was necessary among 
high churchmen of great repute before any fixed resolution 
could wisely be made in such a matter as this, and few 
churchmen stood in higher repute than the Archdeacon 
of Barchester. And then it began to be rumored in the 
world that the minister had disposed at any rate of the see 
of Westminster. 

This present time was a very nervous one for Mrs. Grant- 
ly. What might be the aspirations of the archdeacon him- 
self we will not stop to inquire. It may be that time and 
experience had taught him the futility of earthly honors, 
and made him content with the comfortable opulence of 
his Barsetshire rectory. But there is no theory of Church 
discipline which makes it necessary that a clergyman’s 
wife should have an objection to a bishopric. The arch- 
deacon probably was only anxious to give a disinterested 
aid to the minister; but Mrs. Grantly did long to sit in 
high places, and be, at any rate, equal to Mrs. Proudie. It 
was for her children, she said to herself, that she was thus 
anxious — that they should have a good position before the 


256 


PEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


world, and the means of making the best of themselves. 
“ One is able to do nothing, you know, shut up there down 
at Plumstead,” she had remarked to Lady Lufton on the 
occasion of her first visit to London, and yet the time was 
not long past when she had thought that rectory house at 
Plumstead to be by no means insufficient or contemptible. 

And then there came a question whether or no Griselda 
should go back to her mother ; but this idea was very 
strongly opposed by Lady Lufton, and ultimately with suc- 
cess. “ I really think the dear girl is very happy with me,” 
said Lady Lufton ; “ and if ever she is to belong to me more 
closely, it will be so well that we should know and love one 
another.” 

To tell the truth. Lady Lufton had been trying hard to 
know and love Griselda, but hitherto she had scarcely suc- 
ceeded to the full extent of her wishes. That she loved 
Griselda was certain — with that sort of love which springs 
from a person’s volition and not from the judgment. She 
had said all along to herself and others that she did love 
Griselda Grantly. She had admired the young lady’s face, 
liked her manner, approved of her fortune and family, and 
had selected her for a daughter-in-law in a somewhat im- 
petuous manner. Therefore she loved her. But it was by 
no means clear to Lady Lufton that she did as yet know 
her young friend. The match was a plan of her own, and 
therefore she stuck to it as warmly as ever, but she began 
to have some misgivings whether or no the dear girl would 
be to her herself all that she had dreamed of in a daughter- 
in-law. 

“ But, dear Lady Lufton,” said Mrs. Grantly, “ is it not 
possible that we may put her affections to too severe a 
test ? What if she should learn to regard him, and then — ” 

“ Ah ! if she did, I should have no fear of the result. If 
she showed any thing like love for Ludovic, he would be at 
her feet in a moment. He is impulsive, but she is not.” 

“ Exactly, Lady Lufton. It is his privilege to be impuls- 
ive and to sue for her affection, and hers to have her love 
sought for without making any demonstration. It is per- 
haps the fault of young ladies of the present day that they 
are too impulsive. They assume privileges which are not 
their own, and thus lose those which are.” 

“ Quite true ! I quite agree with you. It is probably 
that very feeling that has made me think so highly of Gri- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


257 


selda. But then — ” But then a young lady, though she 
need not jump down a gentleman’s throat, or throw her- 
self into his face, may give some signs that she is made of 
flesh and blood, especially when her papa and mamma, and 
all belonging to her, are so anxious to make the path of her 
love run smooth. That was what was passing through 
Lady Lufton’s mind ; but she did not say it all ; she mere- 
ly looked it. 

“ I don’t think she will ever allow herself to indulge in 
an unauthorized passion,” said Mrs. Grantly. 

“ I am sure she will not,” said Lady Lufton, with ready 
agreement, fearing perhaps in her heart that Griselda would 
never indulge in any passion, authorized or unauthorized. 

“ I don’t know whether Lord Lufton sees much of her 
now,” said Mrs. Grantly, thinking perhaps of that promise 
of Lady Lufton’s -with reference to his lordship’s spare time. 

“Just lately, during these changes, you know, every body 
has been so much engaged. Ludovic has been constantly 
at the House ; and then men And it so necessary to be at 
their clubs just now.” 

“ Yes, yes, of course,” said Mrs. Grantly, who was not at 
all disposed to think little of the importance of the present 
crisis, or to wonder that men should congregate together 
when such deeds were to be done as those which now oc- 
cupi^^d the breasts of the queen’s advisers. At last, howev- 
er, the two mothers perfectly understood each other. Gri- 
selda was still to remain with Lady Lufton, and was to ac- 
cept her ladyship’s son if he could only be induced to exer- 
cise his privilege of asking her ; but, in the mean time, as 
this seemed to be doubtful, Griselda was not to be debarred 
from her privilege of making what use she could of any 
other string which she might have to her bow. 

“ But, mamma,” said Griselda, in a moment of unwatch- 
ed intercourse between the mother and daughter, “is it re- 
ally true that they are going to make papa a bishop ?” 

“We can tell nothing as yet, my dear. People in the 
world are talking about it. Your papa has been a good 
deal with Lord De Terrier.” 

“ And isn’t he prime minister ?” 

“ Oh yes, I am happy to say that he is.” 

“I thought the prime minister could make any one a 
bishop that he chooses — any clergyman, that is.” 

“ But there is no see vacant,” said Mrs. Grantly. 


258 


FRAMLEY PARSOi^AGE. 


“Then there isn’t any chance,” said Griselda, looking 
very glum. 

“ They are going to have an Act of Parliament for mak- 
ing two more bishops — that’s what they are talking about, 
at least. And if they do — ” 

“ Papa will be Bishop of Westminster, won’t he ? And 
we shall live in London ?” 

“ But you must not talk about it, my dear.” 

“No, I won’t. But, mamma, a Bishop of Westminster 
will be higher than a Bishop of Barchester, won’t he ? I 
shall so like to be able to snub those Miss Proudies.” It 
will therefore be seen that there were matters on which 
even Griselda Grantly could be animated. Like the rest 
of her family, she was devoted to the Church. 

Late on that afternoon the archdeacon returned home to 
dine in Mount Street, having spent the whole of the day be- 
tween the Treasury Chambers, a meeting of Convocation, 
and his club. And when he did get home it was soon man- 
ifest to his wife that he was not laden with good news. 

“ It is almost incredible,” he said, standing with his back 
to the drawing-room fire. 

“What is incredible?” said his wife, sharing her hus- 
band’s anxiety to the full. 

“ If I had not learned it as fact, I would not have believed 
it, even of Lord Brock,” said the archdeacon. 

“ Learned what ?” said the anxious wife. 

“ After all, they are going to oppese the bill.” 

“ Impossible !” said Mrs. Grantly. 

“ But they are.” 

“ The bill for the two new bishops, archdeacon ? oppose 
their own bill !” 

“ Yes, oppose their own bill. It is almost incredible, but 
so it is. Some changes have been forced upon us — ^little 
things which they had forgotten — quite minor matters; 
and they now say that they will be obliged to divide against 
us on these twopenny-halfpenny, hair-splitting points. It 
is Lord Brock’s own doing too, after all that he said about 
abstaining from factious opposition to the government.” 

“ I believe there is nothing too bad or too false for that 
man,” said Mrs. Grantly. 

“ After all they said, too, when they were in power them- 
selves, as to the present government opposing the cause of 
religion ! They declare now that Lord De Terrier can not 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


259 


be very anxious about it, as be bad so many good reasons 
against it a few weeks ago. Is it not dreadful that there 
should be such double-dealing in men in such positions ?” 

“It is sickening,” said Mrs. Grantly. 

And then there was a pause between them as each 
thought of the injury that was done to them. 

“But, archdeacon — ” 

“Well?” 

“ Could you not give up those small points and shame 
them into compliance ?” 

“Nothing would shame them.” 

“ But would it not be well to try ?” 

The game was so good a one, and the stake was so im- 
portant, that Mrs. Grantly felt that it would be worth play- 
ing for to the last. 

“ It is no good.” 

“ But I certainly would suggest it to Lord De Terrier. 
I am sure the country would go along with him; at any 
rate, the Church would.” 

“ It is impossible,” said the archdeacon. “ To tell the 
truth, it did occur to me. But some of them down there 
seemed to think that it would not do.” 

Mrs. Grantly sat a while on the sofa, still meditating in 
her mind whether there might not yet be some escape from 
so terrible a downfall. 

“ But, archdeacon — ” 

“ I’ll go up stairs and dress,” said he, in despondency. 

“ But, archdeacon, surely the present ministry may have 
a majority on such a subject as that ; I thought they were 
sure of a majority now.” 

“No, not sure.” 

“ But, at any rate, the chances are in their favor ? I do 
hope they’ll do their duty, and exert themselves to keep 
their members together.” 

And then the archdeacon told out the whole of the truth. 

“ Lord De Terrier says that under the present circum- 
stances he will not bring the matter forward this session at 
all. So we had better go back to Plumstead.” 

Mrs. Grantly then felt that there was nothing farther to 
be said, and it will be proper that the historian should drop 
a veil over their sufferings. 


260 


FKAMLEY PABSONAGE. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

MAGNA EST YEBITAS. 

It was made known to the reader that in the early part 
of the winter Mr. Sowerby had a scheme for retrieving his 
lost fortunes, and setting himself right in the world by mar- 
rying that rich heiress, Miss Dunstable. I fear my friend 
Sowerby does not, at present, stand high in the estimation 
of those who have come on with me thus far in this narra- 
tive. He has been described as a spendthrift and gambler, 
and as one scarcely honest in his extravagance and gam- 
bling. But, nevertheless, there are worse men than Mr. 
Sowerby, and I am not prepared to say that, should he be 
successful with Miss Dunstable, that lady would choose by 
any means the worst of the suitors who are continually 
throwing themselves at her feet. Reckless as this man al- 
ways appeared to be, reckless as he absolutely was, there 
was still within his heart a desire for better things, and in 
his mind an understanding that he had hitherto missed the 
career of an honest English gentleman. He was proud of 
liis position as member for his county, though hitherto he 
had done so little to grace it ; he was proud of his domain 
at Chaldicotes, though the possession of it had so nearly 
passed out of his own hands ; he was proud of the old blood 
that flowed in his veins ; and he was proud, also, of that 
easy, comfortable, gay manner, which Avent so far in the 
Avorld’s judgment to atone for his extravagance and evil 
practices. If only he could get another chance, as he noAv 
said to himself, things should go very differently with him. 
He Avould utterly forswear the Avhole company of Tozers. 
He would cease to deal in bills, and to pay heaA^en only 
knows how many hundred per cent, for his moneys. He 
Avould no longer prey upon his friends, and Avould redeem 
his title-deeds from the clutches of the Duke of Omnium. 
If only he could get another chance ! 

Miss Dunstable’s fortune Avould do all this and ever so 
much more, and then, moreover. Miss Dunstable Avas a 
Avoman whom he really liked. She Avas not soft, feminine, 
or pretty, nor Avas she very young ; but she Avas clever. 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


261 


self-possessed, and quite able to hold her own in any class ; 
and as to age, Mr. Sowerby was not very young himself. 
In making such a match he would have no cause of shame. 
He could speak of it before his friends without fear of their 
grimaces, and ask them to his house with the full assurance 
that the head of his table would not disgrace him. And 
then, as the scheme grew clearer and clearer to him, he de- 
clared to himself that if he should be successful, he would 
use her well, and not rob her of her money — beyond what 
was absolutely necessary. 

He had intended to have laid his fortunes at her feet at 
Chaldicotes ; but the lady had been coy. Then the deed 
was to have been done at Gatherum Castle ; but the lady 
ran away from Gatherum Castle just at the time on which 
he had fixed; and, since that, one circumstance after an- 
other had postponed the affair in London, till now, at last, 
he was resolved that he would know his fate, let it be what 
it might. If he could not contrive that things should speed- 
ily be arranged, it might come to pass that he would be al- 
together debarred from presenting himself to the lady as 
Mr. Sowerby of Chaldicotes. Tidings had reached him, 
through Mr. Fothergill, that the duke would be glad to 
have matters arranged, and Mr. Sowerby well knew the 
meaning of that message. 

Mr. Sowerby was not fighting this campaign alone, with- 
out the aid of an ally. Indeed, no man ever had a more 
trusty ally in any campaign than he had in this ; and it was 
this ally, the only faithful comrade that clung to him through 
good and ill during his whole life, who first put it into his 
head that Miss Dunstable was a woman and might be mar- 
ried. 

“ A hundred needy adventurers have attempted it, and 
failed already,” Mr. Sowerby had said, when the plan was 
first proposed to him. 

“ But, nevertheless, she will some day marry some one, 
and why not you as well as another?” his sister had an- 
swered. For Mrs. Harold Smith was the ally of whom I 
have spoken. 

Mrs. Harold Smith, whatever may have been her faults, 
could boast of this virtue — that she loved her brother. He 
was probably the only human being that she did love. 
Children she had none ; and as for her husband, it had 
never occurred to her to love him. She had married him 


262 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


for a position ; and, being a clever woman, with a good di- 
gestion and command of her temper, had managed to get 
through the world without much of that unhappiness which 
usually follows ill-assorted marriages. At home she man- 
aged to keep the upper hand, but she did so in an easy, 
good-humored way, that made her rule bearable ; and away 
from home she assisted her lord’s political standing, though 
she laughed more keenly than any one else at his foibles. 
But the lord of her heart was her brother, and in all his 
scrapes, all his extravagance, and all his recklessness, she 
had ever been willing to assist him. With the view of do- 
ing this she had sought the intimacy of Miss Dunstable, 
and for the last year past had indulged every caprice of 
that lady. Or, rather, she had had the wit to learn that 
Miss Dunstable was to be won, not by the indulgence of 
caprices, but by free and easy intercourse, with a dash of 
fun, and, at any rate, a semblance of honesty. Mrs. Harold 
Smith was not, perhaps, herself very honest by disposition ; 
but in these latter days she had taken up a theory of hon- 
esty for the sake of Miss Dunstable — not altogether in vain, 
for Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Harold Smith were certainly 
very intimate. 

“ If I am to do it at all, I must not Avait any longer,” 
said Mr. Sowerby to his sister a day or two after the final 
break-doAvn of the gods. The affection of the sister for the 
brother may be imagined from the fact that at such a time 
she could give up her mind to such a subject. But, in 
truth, her husband’s position as a cabinet minister Avas as 
nothing to her compared Avith her brother’s position as a 
county gentleman. 

“ One time is as good as another,” said Mrs. Harold 
Smith. 

“You mean that you Avould advise me to ask her at 
once.” 

“ Certainly. But you must remember, Hat, that you Avill 
have no easy task. It will not do for you to kneel doAvn 
and swear that you love her.” 

“ If I do it at all, I shall certainly do it Avithout kneeling 
— you may be sure of that, Harriet.” 

“Yes, and without SAvearing that you love her. There 
is only one Avay in which you can be successful Avith Miss 
Dunstable — you must tell her the truth.” 

“ What ! tell her that I am ruined, horse, foot, and dra- 
goons, and then bid her help me out of the mire ?” 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


263 


“ Exactly ; that will be your only chance, strange as it 
may appear.” 

“ This is very dilFerent from what you used to say down 
at Chaldicotes.” 

“ So it is ; but I know her much better than I did when 
we were there.' Since then I have done but little else than 
study the freaks of her character. If she really likes you 
— and I think she does — she could forgive you any other 
crime but that of swearing that you loved her.” 

“ I should hardly know how to propose without saying 
something about it.” 

“ But you must say nothing — not a word ; you must tell 
her that you are a gentleman of good blood and high sta- 
tion, but sadly out at elbows.” 

“ She knows that already.” 

“ Of course she does ; but she must know it as coming 
directly from your own mouth. And then tell her that 
you propose to set yourself right by marrying her — by 
marrying her for the sake of her money.” 

“ That will hardly win her, 1 should say.” 

“ If it does not, no other way that I know of will do so. 
As I told you before, it will be no easy task. Of course 
you must make her understand that her happiness shall be 
cared for ; but that must not be put prominently forward 
as your object. Your first object is her money, and your 
only chance for success is in telling the truth.” 

“It is very seldom that a man finds himself in such a 
position as that,” said Sowerby, walking up and down his 
sister’s room ; “ and, ujjon my word, I don’t think I am up 
to the task. I should certainly break down. I don’t be- 
lieve there’s a man in London could go to a woman with 
such a story as that, and then ask her to marry him.” 

“ If you can not, you may as well give it up,” said Mrs. 
Harold Smith. “But if you can do it — if you can go through 
with it in that manner, my own opinion is that your chance 
of success would not be bad. The fact is,” added the sis- 
ter after a while, during which her brother was continuing 
his walk and meditating on the difficulties of his position, 
“ the fact is, you men never understand a woman ; you give 
her credit neither for her strength nor for her weakness. 
You are too bold and too timid: you think she is a fool 
and tell her so, and yet never can trust her to do a kind 
action. Why should she not marry you with the intention 


264 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


of doing yon a good turn ? After all, she would lose very 
little : there is the estate, and if she redeemed it, it would 
belong to her as well as to you.” 

“ It would be a good turn, indeed. I fear I should be 
too modest to put it to her in that way.” 

“ Her position would be much better as your wife than 
it is at present. You are good-humored and good-temper- 
ed ; you would intend to treat her well, and, on the whole, 
she would be much happier as Mrs. Sowerby of Chaldicotes 
than she can be in her present position.” 

“ If she cared about being married, I suppose she could 
be a peer’s wife to-morrow.” 

“ But I don’t think she cares about being a peer’s wife. 
A needy peer might perhaps win her in the way that I pro- 
pose to you, but then a needy peer would not know how 
to set about it. Heedy peers have tried — half a dozen, I 
have noMoubt — and have failed because they have pretend- 
ed that they were in love with her. It may be difficult, 
but your only chance is to tell her the truth.” 

“ And where shall I do it ?” 

“ Here, if you choose ; but her own house will be better.” 

“ But I never can see her there — at least not alone. I 
believe that she never is alone. She always keeps a lot of 
people round her in order to stave off her lovers. Upon 
my word, Harriet, I think I’ll give it up. It is impossible 
that I should make such a declaration to her as that you 
propose.” 

“Faint heart, Hat — you know the rest.” 

“ But the poet never alluded to such wooing as that you 
have suggested. I suppose I had better begin with a sched- 
ule of my debts, and make reference, if she doubts me, to 
Fothergill, the sheriff’s officers, and the Tozer family.” 

^ “ She will not doubt you on that head, nor will she be a 
bit surprised.” 

Then there was again a pause, during which Mr. Sower- 
by still walked up and down the room, thinking whether 
or no he might possibly have any chance of success in so 
hazardous an enterprise. 

“ I tell you what, Harriet,” at last he said, “ I wish you’d 
do it for me.” 

“ Well,” said she, “ if you really mean it, I will make the 
attempt.” 

“ I am sure of this, that I shall never make it myself. I 


FEAMLEY TAESOXAGE. 


265 


positively should not have the courage to tell her in so 
many words that I wanted to marry her for her money.” 

“Well, Nat, I will attempt it. At any rate, I am not 
afraid of her. She and I are excellent friends, and, to tell 
the truth, I think I like her better than any other woman 
that I know ; but I never should have been intimate with 
her had it not been for your sake.” 

“ And now you Tvill have to quarrel with her, also for my 
sake ?” 

“ Not at all. You’ll find that, whether she accedes to 
my proposition or not, we shall continue friends. I do not 
think that she would die for me, nor I for her. But, as 
the world goes, we suit each other. Such a little trifle as 
this will not break our loves.” 

And so it was settled. On the following day Mrs. 
Harold Smith was to find an opportunity of explaining the 
whole matter to Miss Dunstable, and was to ask that lady 
to share her fortune — some incredible number of thousands 
of pounds — with the bankrupt member for West Barset- 
shire, who, in return, was to bestow on her — himself and 
his debts. 

Mrs. Harold Smith had spoken no more than the truth 
in saying that she and Miss Dunstable suited one another. 
And she had not improperly described their friendship. 
They were not prepared to die, one for the sake of the 
other. They had said nothing to each other of mutual 
love and affection. They never kissed, or cried, or made 
speeches when they met or when they parted. There was 
no great benefit for which either had to be grateful to the 
other — no terrible injury which either had forgiven. But 
they suited each other ; and this, I take it, is the secret of 
most of our pleasantest intercourse in the world. 

And it was almost grievous that they should suit each 
other, for Miss Dunstable was much the worthier of the 
two, had she but known it herself. It was almost to be 
lamented that she should have found herself able to livo 
with Mrs. Harold Smith on terms that were perfectly sat- 
isfactory to herself. Mrs. Harold Smith was worldly, heart- 
]ess — to all the world but her brother — and, as has been 
above hinted, almost dishonest. Miss Dunstable was not 
worldly, though it was possible that her present style of 
life might make her so ; she was affectionate, fond of truth, 
and prone to honesty, if those around would but allow her 


266 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


to exercise it. But she was fond of ease and humor, some- 
times of wit that might almost he called broad, and she 
had a thorough love of ridiculing the world’s humbugs. 
In all these propensities Mrs. Harold Smith indulged her. 

Under these circumstances they were now together al- 
most every day. It had become quite a habit with Mrs. 
Harold Smith to have herself driven early in the forenoon 
to Miss Dunstable’s house ; and that lady, though she could 
never be found alone by Mr. Sowerby, was habitually so 
found by his sister. And after that they w'ould go out to- 
gether, or each separately, as fancy or the business of the 
day might direct them. Each was easy to the other in 
this alliance, and they so managed that they never trod on 
each other’s corns. 

On the day following the agreement made between Mr. 
Sowerby and Mrs. Harold Smith, that lady, as usual, called 
on Miss Dunstable, and soon found herself alone with her 
friend in a small room which the heiress kept solely for her 
own purposes. On special occasions persons of various 
sorts were there admitted ; occasionally a parson who had 
a church to build, (Jr a dowager laden with the last morsel 
of town slander, or a poor author who could not get due 
payment for the efforts of his brain, or a poor governess on 
whose feeble stamina the weight of the w’orld had borne too 
hardly. But men who by possibility could be lovers did 
not make their way thither, nor women who could be bores. 
In these latter days, that is, during the present London sea- 
son, the doors of it had been oftener opened to Mrs. Harold 
Smith than to any other person. 

And now the effort was to be made with the object of 
which all this intimacy had been effected. As she came 
thither in her carriage, Mrs. Harold Smith herself was not 
altogether devoid of that sinking of the heart which is so 
frequently the forerunner of any difficult and hazardous un- 
dertaking. She had declared that she would feel no fear 
in making the little proposition. But she did feel some- 
thing very like it ; and when she made her entrance into 
the little room, she certainly wished that the work was 
done and over. 

“ How is poor Mr. Smith to-day ?” asked Miss Dunstable, 
with an air of mock condolence, as her friend seated her- 
self in her accustomed easy-chair. The downfall of the 
gods was as yet a history hardly three days old, and it 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


267 


might well be supposed that the late lord of the Petty Bag 
had hardly recovered from his misfortune. 

“Well, he is better, I think, this morning — at least I 
should judge so from the manner in which he confronted 
his eggs. But still I don’t like the way he handles the carv- 
ing-knife. I am sure he is always thinking of Mr. Supple- 
house at those moments.” 

“Poor man! I mean Supplehouse. After all, why 
shouldn’t he follow his trade as well as another? Live 
and let live, that’s what I say.” 

“ Ay, but it’s kill and let kill with him. That is what 
Horace says. However, I am tired of all that now, and I 
came here to-day to talk about something else.” 

“ I rather like Mr. Supplehouse myself,” exclaimed Miss 
Dunstable. “ He never makes any bones about the mat- 
ter. He has a certain work to do, and a certain cause to 
serve — namely, his own ; and, in order to do that work and 
serve that cause, he uses such weapons as God has placed 
in his hands.” 

“ That’s what the wild beasts do.” 

“ And where will you find men honester than they ? The 
tiger tears you up because he is hungry and wants to eat 
you. That’s what Supplehouse does. But there are so 
many among us tearing up one another without any excuse 
of hunger. The mere pleasure of destroying is reason 
enough.” 

“Well, my dear, my mission to you to-day is certainly 
not one of destruction, as you will admit when you hear it. 
It is one, rather, very absolutely of salvation. I have come 
to make love to you.” 

“Then the salvation, I suppose, is not for myself,” said 
Miss Dunstable. 

It was quite clear to Mrs. Harold Smith that Miss Dun- 
stable had immediately understood the whole purport of 
this visit, and that she was not in any great measure sur- 
prised. It did not seem from the tone of the heiress’s 
voice, or from the serious look which at once settled on 
her face, that she would be prepared to give a very ready 
compliance. But then great objects can only be won with 
great efibrts. 

“ That’s as may be,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. “ For you 
and another also, I hope. But I trust, at any rate, that I 
may not offend you.” 


268 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“ Oh, laws ! no ; nothing of that kind ever offends me 
now.” 

“ Well, I suppose you’re used to it.” 

“ Like the eels, my dear. I don’t mind it the least in the 
world — only sometimes, you know, it is a little tedious.” 

“ I’ll endeavor to avoid that, so I may as well break the 
ice at once. You know enough of Nathaniel’s affairs to be 
aware that he is not a very rich man.” 

“ Since you do ask me about it, I suppose there’s no harm 
in saying that I believe him to be a very poor man.” 

“Not the least harm in the world, but just the reverse. 
Whatever may come of this, my wish is that the truth 
should be told scrupulously on all sides ; the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth.” 

Magna est veritas^^'’ said Miss Dunstable. “ The Bish- 
op of Barchester taught me as much Latin as that at Chal- 
dicotes ; and he did add some more, but there was a long 
word, and I forgot it.” 

“ The bishop was quite right, my dear, I’jn sure. But 
if you go to your Latin, I’m lost. As we were just now 
saying, my brother’s pecuniary affairs are in a very bad 
state. He has a beautiful property of his own, wdiich has 
been in the family for I can’t say how many centuries — 
long before the Conquest, I know.” 

“ I wonder what my ancestors were then ?” 

“ It does not much signify to any of us,” said Mrs. Har- 
old Smith, with a moral shake of her head, “ what our an- 
cestors were; but it’s a sad thing to see an old property 
go to ruin.” 

“ Yes, indeed ; we none of us like to see our property go- 
ing to ruin, whether it be old or new. I have some of that 
sort of feeling already, although mine was only made the 
other day out of an apothecary’s shop.” 

“ God forbid that I should ever help you to ruin it,” said 
Mrs. Harold Smith. “ I should be sorry to be the means 
of your losing a ten-pound note.” 

'‘Magna est veritas^ as the dear bishop said,” exclaimed 
Miss Dunstable. “ Let us have the truth, the whole truth, 
and nothing but the truth, as we agreed just now.” 

Mrs. Harold Smith did begin to find that the task before 
her was difiicult. There was a hardness about Miss Dun- 
stable when matters of business were concerned on which 
it seemed almost impossible to ipake any impression. It 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


269 


was not that she had evinced any determination to refuse 
the tender of Mr. Sowerby’s hand, but she was so painfully 
resolute not to have dust thrown in her eyes ! Mrs. Har- 
old Smith had commenced with a mind fixed upon avoid- 
ing what she called humbug ; but this sort of humbug had 
become so prominent a part of her usual rhetoric, that she 
found it very hard to abandon it. 

“ And that’s what I wish,” said she. “ Of course, my 
chief object is to secure my brother’s happiness.” 

“ That’s very unkind to poor Mr. Harold Smith.” 

“"VYell, well, well — you know what I mean.” 

“ Yes, I think I do know what you mean. Your brother 
is a gentleman of good family, but of no means.” 

“ Not quite so bad as that.” 

“ Of embarrassed means, then, or any thing that you will ; 
whereas I am a lady of no family, but of sufficient wealth. 
You think that if you brought us together and made a 
match of it, it would be a very good thing for — for whom ?” 
said Miss Dunstable. 

“Yes, exactly,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. 

“ For which of us ? Remember the bishop now and his 
nice little bit of Latin.” 

“ For Nathaniel then,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, boldly. 
“ It would be a very good thing for him.” And a slight 
smile came across her face as she said it. “Now that’s 
honest, or the mischief is in it.” 

“ Yes, that’s honest enough. And did he send you here 
to tell me this ?” 

“ Well, he did that, and something else.” 

“ And now let’s have the something else. The really im- 
portant part, I have no doubt, has been spoken.” 

“ No, by no means — by no means all of it. But you are 
so hard on one, my dear, with your running after honesty, 
that one is not able to tell the real facts as they are. You 
make one speak in such a bald, naked way.” 

“ Ah ! you think that any thing naked must be indecent 
— even truth.” 

“ I think it is more proper-looking, and better suited, 
too, for the world’s work, when it goes about with some 
sort of a garment on it. We are so used to a leaven of 
fiilsehood in all we hear and say, nowadays, that nothing is 
more likely to deceive us than the absolute truth. If a 
shopkeeper told me that his wares were simply middling. 


270 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


of course I should think they were not worth a farthing. 
But all that has nothing to do with my poor brother. 
Well, what was I saying 

“ You were going to tell me how well he would use me, 
no doubt.” 

“ Something of that kind.” 

“ That he wouldn’t beat me ; or spend all my money if 
I managed to have it tied up out of his power ; or look 
down on me with contempt because my father was an 
apothecary ! Was not that what you were going to say ?” 

“ I was going to tell you that you might be more happy 
as Mrs. Sowerby of Chaldicotes than you can be as Miss 
Dunstable — ” 

“ Of Mount Lebanon. And had Mr. Sowerby no other 
message to send ? nothing about love, or any thing of that 
sort ? I should like, you know, to understand what his 
feelings are before I take such a leap.” 

“ I do believe he has as true a regard for you as any man 
of his age ever does have — ” 

“ For any woman of mine. That is not putting it in a 
very devoted way, certainly ; but I am glad to see that you 
remember the bishop’s maxim.” 

“ What would you have me say ? If I told you that he 
was dying for love, you would say I was trying to cheat 
you ; and now, because I don’t tell you so, you say that he 
is wanting in devotion. I must say you are hard to please.” 

“ Perhaps I am, and very unreasonable into the bargain. 
I ought to ask no questions of the kind when your brother 
proposes to do me so much honor. As for my expecting 
the love of a man who condescends to wish to be my hus- 
band, that, of course, would be moEstrous. What right 
can I have to think that any man should love me? It 
ought to be enough for me . to know that, as I am rich, I 
can get a husband. What business can such as I have to 
inquire whether the gentleman who would so honor me 
really would like my company, or would only deign to put 
up with my presence in his household ?” 

“ Now, my dear Miss Dunstable — ” 

“ Of course I am not such an ass as to expect that any 
gentleman should love me, and I feel that I ought to be 
obliged to your brother for sparing me the string of com- 
plimentary declarations which are usual on such occasions. 
He, at any rate, is not tedious — or, rather, you on his be- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


271 


half ; for no doubt liis own time is so occupied with his 
parliamentary duties that he can not attend to this little 
matter himself. I do feel grateful to him; and perhaps 
nothing more will be necessary than to give him a sched- 
ule of the property, and name an early day for putting him 
in possession.” 

Mrs. Smith did feel that she was rather badly used. This 
Miss Dunstable, in their mutual confidences, had so often 
ridiculed the love-making grimaces of her mercenary suit- 
ors, had spoken so fiercely against those who had perse- 
cuted her, not because they had desired her money, but on 
account of their ill judgment in thinking her to be a fool, 
that Mrs. Smith had a right to expect that the method she 
had adopted for opening the negotiation would be taken in 
a better spirit. Could it be possible, after all, thought Mrs. 
Smith to herself, that Miss Dunstable was like other wom- 
en, and that she did like to have men kneeling at her feet ? 
Could it be the case that she had advised her brother bad- 
ly, and that it would have been better for him to have gone 
about his work in the old-fashioned way ? “ They are very 
hard to manage,” said Mrs. Harold Smith to herself, think- 
ing of her own sex. 

“ He was coming here himself,” said she, “ but I advised 
him not to do so.” 

‘‘ That was so kind of you.” 

“ I thought that I could explain to you more openly and 
more freely what his intentions really are.” 

“ Oh ! I have no doubt that they are honorable,” said 
Miss Dunstable. “ He does not want to deceive me in that 
way, I am quite sure.” 

It was impossible to help laughing, and Mrs. Harold 
Smith did laugh. “ Upon my word, you would provoke a 
saint,” said she. 

“ I am not likely to get into any such company by the 
alliance that you are now suggesting to me. There are 
not many saints usually at Chaldicotes, I believe — always 
excepting my dear bishop and his wife.” 

“ But, my dear, what am I to say to Nathaniel ?” 

“ Tell him, of course, how much obliged to him I am.” 

“ Do listen to me one moment. I dare say that I have 
done wrong to speak to you in such a bold, unromantic 
way.” 

“Not at all. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing 


272 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


but the truth. That’s what we agreed upon. But one’s 
first efforts in any line are always apt to be a little un- 
couth.” 

“I will send ISTathaniel to you himself.” 

“No, do not do so. Why torment either him or me? 
I do like your brother — in a certain way I like him much. 
But no earthly consideration would induce me to marry 
him. Is it not so glaringly plain that he would marry me 
for my money only, that you have not even dared to sug- 
gest any other reason ?” 

“ Of course it would have been nonsense to say that he 
had no regard whatever toward your money.” 

“ Of course it would — absolute nonsense. He is a poor 
man with a good position, and he wants to marry me be- 
cause I have got that which he wants. But, my dear, I do 
not want that which he has got, and therefore the bargain 
would not be a fair one.” 

“ But he would do his very best to make you happy.” 

“ I am so much obliged to him ; but, you see, I am very 
happy as I am. What should I gain ?” 

“ A companion whom you confess that you like.” 

“ Ah ! but I don’t know that I should like too much, 
even of such a companion as your brother. No, my dear, 
it Avon’t do. Believe me when I tell you, once for all, that 
it won’t do.” 

“Do you mean, then. Miss Dunstable, that you’ll never 
marry ?” 

“To-morroAV — if I met any one that I fancied, and he 
Avould have me. But I rather think that any that I may 
fancy Avon’t have me. In the first place, if I marry any one, 
the man must be quite indifferent to money.” 

“ Then you’ll not find him in this Avorld, my dear.” 

“Very possibly not,” said Miss Dunstable. 

All that Avas farther said upon the subject need not be 
here repeated. Mrs. Harold Smith did not give up her 
cause quite at once, although Miss Dunstable had spoken 
so plainly. She tried to explain how eligible would be her 
friend’s situation as mistress of Chaldicotes, Avhen Chaldi- 
cotes should OAve no penny to any man ; and went so far as 
to hint that the master of Chaldicotes, if relieved of his em- 
barrassments and knoAvn as a rich man, might in all prob- 
ability be found Avorthy of a peerage Avhen the gods should 
return to Olympus. Mr. Harold Smith, as a cabinet minis- 


niAMI-EY PATISONAGK. 


273 


ter, would, of course, do liis best. But it was all of no use. 
“ It’s not my destiny,” said Miss Dunstable, “ and there- 
fore do not press it any longer.” 

“ But we shall not quarrel,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, ah 
most tenderly. 

“ Oh no, why should we quarrel ?” 

“ And you Avon’t look glum at my brother ?” 

“ Why should I look glum at him ? But, Mrs. Smith, I’ll 
do more than not looking glum at him. I do like you, and 
I do like your brother, and if I can in any moderate way 
assist him in his difficulties, let him tell me so.” 

Soon after this Mrs. Harold Smith Avent her A\’ay. Of 
course, she declared in a Axry strong manner that her 
brother could not think of accepting from Miss Dunstable 
any such pecuniary assistance as that offered ; and, to give 
her her due, such was the feeling of her mind at the mo- 
ment ; but as she went to meet her brother and gave him 
an account of this intervicAV, it did occur to her that possi- 
bly Miss Dunstable might be a better creditor than the 
Duke of Omnium for the Chaldicotes property. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

NOX-IMPULSIVE. 

It can not be held as astonishing that that last decision 
on the part of the Giants in the matter of the two bishop- 
rics should have disgusted Archdeacon Grantly. He was 
a politician, but not a politican as they Avere. As is the 
case Avith all exoteric men, his political eyes saAV a short 
Avay only, and his political aspirations Avere as limited. 
When his friends came into office, that Bishop Bill, which, 
as the original product of his enemies, had been regarded 
by him as being so pernicious — for was it not about to be 
made law in order that other Proudies and such like might 
be hoisted up into high places and large incomes, to the 
terrible detriment of the Church ? — that Bishop Bill, I say, 
in the hands of his friends, had appeared to him to be a 
means of almost national salvation. And then, how great 
had been the good fortune of the Giants in this matter ! 
Had they been the originators of such a measure they 
Avould not have had a chance of success ; but noAV — noAV 
that the two bishops Avere falling into their mouths out of 


274 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


the weak hands of the Gods, was not their success insured ? 
So Dr. Grantly had girded up his loins and marched up to 
the fight, almost regretting that the triumph would he so 
easy. The subsequent failure was very trying to his tem- 
per as a party man. 

It always strikes me that the supporters of the Titans 
are in this respect much to be pitied. The Giants them- 
selves — those who are actually handling Pelion, and break- 
ing their shins over the lower rocks of Ossa, are always 
advancing in some sort toward the councils of Olympus. 
Their highest policy is to snatch some ray from heaven. 
Why else put Pelion on Ossa, unless it be that a furtive 
hand, making its way through Jove’s windows, may pluck 
forth a thunderbolt or two, or some article less destructive, 
but of manufacture equally divine ? And in this consists 
the wisdom of the higher Giants — that, in spite of their 
mundane antecedents, theories, and predilections, they can 
see that articles of divine manufacture are necessary. But 
then they never carry their supporters with them. Their 
whole army is an army of martyrs. “For tAventy years I 
have stuck to them, and see hoAv they have treated me !” 
Is not that always the plaint of an old giant-slave ? “I 
have been true to my party all my life, and where am I 
noAV?” he says. Where, indeed, my friend? Looking 
all about you, you begin to learn that you can not describe 
your Avhereabouts. I do not marvel at that. No one finds 
himself planted at last in so terribly foul a morass as he 
Avould fain stand still forever on dry ground. 

Dr. Grantly Avas disgusted ; and, although he Avas him- 
self too true and thorough in all his feelings to be able to 
say aloud that any Giant was Avrong, still he had a sad 
feeling Avithin his heart that the world AA^as sinking from 
under him. He was still sufiiciently exoteric to think that 
a good stand-up fight in a good cause AA^as a good thing. 
No doubt he did Avish to be Bishop of Westminster, and 
Av^as anxious to compass that preferment by any means that 
might appear to him to be fair. And AA^hy not ? But this 
AA^as not the end of his aspirations. He Avished that the 
Giants might prevail in every thing — in bishoprics as in 
all other matters ; and he could not understand that they 
should give Avay on the A^ery first appearance of a skirmish. 
In his open talk he was loud against many a god, but in his 
heart of hearts he was bitter enough against both Porphyr- 
ion and Orion. 


FKA^ILEY TARSOXAGE. 


275 


“ My dear doctor, it would not do — not in tliis session ; 
it would not, indeed.” So had spoken to him a half-fledged, 
but especially esoteric young monster-cub at the Treasury, 
who considered himself as up to all the dodges of his party, 
and regarded the army of martyrs who supported it as a 
rather heavy, but very useful collection of fogies. Dr. 
Grantly had not cared to discuss the matter with the half- 
fledged monster-cub. The best licked of all the monsters, 
the Giant most like a god of them all, had said a word or 
two to him, and he also had said a word or two to that 
Giant. Porphyrion had told him that the Bishop Bill 
would not do ; and he, in return, speaking with warm face, 
and blood in his cheeks, had told Porphyrion that he saw 
no reason why the bill should not do. The courteous Giant 
had smiled as he shook his ponderous head, and then the 
archdeacon had left him, unconsciously shaking some dust 
fi’om his shoes as he paced the passages of the Treasury 
Chambers for the last time. As he walked back to his 
lodgings in Mount Street, many thoughts, not altogether 
bad in their nature, passed through his mind. Why should 
he trouble himself about a bishopric ? Was he not well as 
he was, in his rectory down at Plumstead ? Might it not 
be ill for him, at his age, to transplant himself into new 
soil, to engage in new duties, and live among new people ? 
Was he not useful at Barchester, and respected also; and 
might it not be possible that up there at Westminster he 
might be regarded merely as a tool with which other men 
could work? He had not quite liked the tone of that spe- 
cially esoteric young monster-cub, who had clearly regard- 
ed him as a distinguished fogy from the army of martyrs. 
He would take his wife back to Barsetshire, and there live 
contented with the good things which Providence had 
given him. 

Those liigli political grapes had become sour, my sneer- 
ing friends Avill say. Well? Is it not a good thing that 
grapes should become sour which hang out of reach ? Is 
he not Avise Avho can regard all grapes as sour which are 
manifestly too high for his hand ? Those grapes of the 
Treasury Bench, for Avhich gods and giants fight, sufiering 
so much Avhen they are forced to abstain from eating, and 
so much more Avhen they do eat, those grapes are very sour 
to me. I am sure that they are indigestible, and that those 
Avho cat them undergo all the ills Avhich the Revalenta 


276 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Arabica is prepared to cure. And so it was now with the 
archdeacon. He thought of the strain which would have 
been put on his conscience had he come up there to sit in 
London as Bishop of Westminster, and in this frame of 
mind he walked home to his wife. 

During the first few moments of his interview with her 
all his regrets had come back upon him. Indeed, it would 
have hardly suited for him then to have preached this new 
doctrine of rural contentment. The wife of his bosom, 
whom he so fully trusted — had so fully loved — wished for 
grapes that hung high upon the wall, and he knew that it 
was past his power to teach her at the moment to drop her 
ambition. Any teaching that he might effect in that way 
must come by degrees. But before many minutes were 
over he had told her of her fate and of his own decision. 
“ So Ave had better go back to Plumstead,” he said ; and 
she had not dissented. 

“ I am sorry for poor Griselda’s sake,” Mrs. Grantly had 
remarked later in the evening, Avhen they Avere again to- 
gether. 

“ But I thought she Avas to remain AAuth Lady Lufton.” 

“Well, so siie Avdll, for a little time. There is no one 
Avith Avhom I Avould so soon trust her out of my own care 
as Avith Lady Lufton. She is all that one can desire.” 

“ Exactly ; and, as far as Griselda is concerned,! can not 
say that I think she is to be pitied.” 

“Not to be pitied, perhaps,” said Mrs. Grantly. “ But, 
you see, archdeacon. Lady Lufton, of course, has her OAvn 
vieAVS.” 

“ Her OAAm vieAVS ?” 

“ It is hardly any secret that she is very anxious to make 
a match between Lord Lufton and Griselda. And though 
that might be a very proper arrangement if it Avere fixed — ” 

“ Lord Lufton marry Griselda !” said the archdeacon, 
speaking quick and raising his eyebroAVS. His mind had 
as yet been troubled by but few thoughts respecting his 
child’s future establishment. “I had never dreamed of 
such a thing.” 

“ But other people have done more than dream of it, 
archdeacon. As regards the match itself, it Avould, I think, 
be unobjectionable. Lord Lufton Avill not be a very rich 
man, but his property is respectable, and, as far as I can 
learii, bis character is on the Avhole good. If they like each 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


277 


other, I should be contented with such a marriage. But, I 
must own, I am not quite satisfied at the idea of leaving 
her all alone with Lady Lufton. People will look on it as 
a settled thing when it is not settled, and very probably 
may not be settled, and that will do the poor girl harm. 
She is very much admired ; there can be no doubt of that ; 
and Lord Dumbello — ” 

The archdeacon opened his eyes still wider. He had had 
no idea that such a choice of sons-in-law was being prepared 
for him ; and, to tell the truth, was almost bewildered by 
the height of his wife’s ambition.' Lord Lufton, with his 
barony and twenty thousand a year, might be accepted as 
just good enough ; but, failing him, there was an embryo 
marquis, whose fortune would bo more than ten times as 
great, all ready to accept his child ! And then he thought, 
as husbands sometimes will think, of Susan Harding as she 
was when he had gone a-courting to her under the elms be- 
fore the house in the warden’s garden at Barchester, and 
of dear old Mr. Harding, his wife’s father, who still lived in 
humble lodgings in that city; and as he thought, he won- 
dered at and admired the greatness of that lady’s mind. 

“I never can forgive Lord He Terrier,” said the lady, 
connecting various points together in her own mind. 

“That’s nonsense,” said the archdeacon. “You must 
forgive him.” 

“ And I must confess that it annoys me to leave London 
at present.” 

“It can’t be helped,” said the archdeacon, somewhat 
gruffly ; for he was a man who, on certain points, chose to 
have his ©"wn way, and had it. 

“ Oh no, I know it can’t be helped,” said Mrs. Grantly, 
in a tone which implied a deep injury. “I knoAV it can’t 
be helped. Poor Griselda !” And then they went to bed. 

On the next morning Griselda came to her, and in an in- 
terview that was strictly private her mother said more to 
her than she had ever yet spoken as to the prospects of her 
future life. Hitherto, on this subject, Mrs. Grantly had said 
little or nothing. She would have been well pleased that 
her daughter should have received the incense of Lord Luf- 
ton’s vows — or, perhaps, as well pleased had it been the in- 
cense of Lord Dumbello’s vows — without any interference 
on her part. In such case her child, she knew, would have 
told her with quite suffleient eagerness, and the matter in 


278 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


either case would have been arranged as a very pretty love- 
match. She had no fear of any impropriety or of any rash- 
ness on Griselda’s part. She had thoroughly known her 
daughter when she boasted that Griselda would never in- 
dulge in an unauthorized passion. But as matters now 
stood, with those two strings to her bow, and with that 
Lufton-Grantly alliance treaty in existence — of which she, 
Griselda herself, knew nothing — might it not be possible 
that the poor child might stumble through want of ade- 
quate direction ? Guided by these thoughts, Mrs. Grantly 
had resolved to say a few words before she left London. 
So she wrote a line to her daughter, and Griselda reached 
Mount Street at two o’clock in Lady Lufton’s carriage, 
which, during the interview, waited for her at the beer-shop 
round the corner. 

“And papa won’t be Bishop of Westminster ?” said the 
young lady, when the doings of the Giants had been suffi- 
ciently explained to make her understand that all those 
hopes were over. 

“No, my dear; at any rate, not now.” 

“ What a shame ! I thought it was all settled. What’s 
the good, mamma, of Lord De Terrier being prime minis- 
ter, if he can’t make whom he likes a bishop ?” 

“ I don’t think that Lord De Terrier has behaved at all 
Avell to your father. However, that’s a long question, and 
we can’t go into it now.” 

“ How glad those Proudies will be !” 

Griselda would have talked by the hour on this subiect 
had her mother allowed her, but it was necessary that Sirs. 
Grantly should go to other matters. She began about 
Lady Lufton, saying what a dear woman her ladyship was ; 
and then went on to say that Griselda was to remain in 
London as long as it suited her friend and hostess to stay 
there with her ; but added that this might probably not 
be very long, as it was notorious that Lady Lufton, when 
in London, was always in a hurry to get back to Framley. 

“ But I don’t think she is in such a liurry this year, mam- 
ma,” said Griselda, who in the month of May preferred 
Bruton Street to Plumstead, and had no objection what- 
ever to the coronet on the panels of Lady Lufton’s coach. 

And then Mrs. Grantly commenced her explanation — ■ 
very cautiously. “No, my dear, I dare say she is not in 
such a hurry this year — that is, as long as you remain with 
her.” 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


279 


“ I am sure she is very kind.” 

“ She is very kind, and you ought to love her very much. 
I know I do. I have no friend in the world for whom I 
have a greater regard than for Lady Lufton. It is that 
which makes me so happy to leave you with her.” 

“ All the same, I wish that you and papa had remained 
up — that is, if they had made papa a bishop.” 

“ It’s no good thinking of that now, my dear. "What I 
particularly wanted to say to you was this : I think you 
should know what are the ideas which Lady Lufton enter- 
tains.” 

“Her ideas!” said Griselda, who had never troubled 
herself much in thinking about other people’s thoughts. 

“ Yes, Griselda. While you were staying down at Fram- 
ley Court, and also, I suppose, since you have been up here 
in Bruton Street, you must have seen a ffood deal of — Lord 
Lufton.” 

“ He doesn’t come very often to Bruton Street — that is 
to say, not mry often.” 

“ H-m,” ejaculated Mrs. Grantly, very gently. She would 
willingly have repressed the sound altogether, but it had 
been too much for her. If she found reason to think that 
Lady Lufton was playing her false, she would immediately 
take her daughter away, break up the treaty, and prei3are 
for the HartletOp alliance. Such were the thoughts that 
ran through her mind. But she knew all the while that 
Lady Lufton was not false. The fault was not with Lady 
Lufton, nor, perhaps, altogether with Lord Lufton. Mrs. 
Grantly had understood the full force of the comjdaint 
which Lady Lufton had made against her daughter ; and 
though she had, of course, defended her child, and, on the 
whole, had defended her successfully, yet she confessed to 
herself that Griselda’s chance of a first-rate establishment 
would be better if she were a little more impulsive. A 
man does not wish to marry a statue, let the statue be ever 
so statuesque. She could not teach her daughter to be 
impulsive any more than she could teach her to be six feet 
high ; but might it not be possible to teach her to seem so ? 
The task was a very delicate one, even for a mother’s hand. 

“ Of course he can not be at home now as much as he 
was down in the country, when he was living in the same 
house,” said Mrs. Grantly, whose business it was to take 
Lord Lufton’s part at the present moment. “He must 


280 


FKAMLEY PAIISONAGE. 


"be at his club, and at the House of Lords, and in twenty 
23laces.” 

“ He is very fond of sfoin" to parties, and he dances 
beautifully.” 

“I am sure he does. I have seen as much as that my- 
self, and I think I know some one with whom he likes to 
dance.” And the mother gave her daughter a loving little 
squeeze. 

“ Ho you mean me, mamma ?” 

“ Yes, I do mean you, my dear. And is it not true ? 
Lady Lufton says that he likes dancing with you better 
than wdth any one else in London.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Griselda, looking down u 2 >on the 
ground. 

Mrs. Grantly thought that this, upon the whole, was 
rather a good opening. It might have been bettor. Some 
23oint of interest more serious in its nature than that of a. 
waltz might have been found on which to connect her 
daughter’s sympathies with those of her future husband. 
But any 23oint of interest was better than none ; and it is 
so difficult to find points of interest in 23ersons who by their 
nature are not impulsive. 

“Lady Lufton says so, at any rate,” continued Mrs. 
Grantly, ever so cautiously. “ She thinks that Lord Luf- 
ton likes no partner better. What do you think yourself, 
Griselda?” 

“ I don’t know, mamma.” 

“ But young ladies must think of such things, must they 
not ?” 

“ Must they, mamma ?” 

“ I suppose they do, don’t they ? The truth is, Griselda, 
that Lady Lufton thinks that if — Can you guess what it 
is she thinks ?” 

“ No, mamma.” But that was a fib on Griselda’s part. 

^ “ She thinks that my Griselda would make the best pos- 
sible wife in the world for her son ; and I think so too. I 
think that her son will be a very fortunate man if he can 
get such a wife. And now what do you think, Griselda?” 

“ I don’t think any thing, mamma.” 

But that would not do. It was absolutely necessary that 
she should think, and absolutely necessary that her mother 
should tell her so. Such a degree of unimpulsivness as this 
would lead to — heaven knows what results! Lufton- 


PKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


281 


Grantly treaties and Hartletop interests would be all thrown 
away upon a young lady who would not think any thing 
of a noble suitor sighing for her smiles. Besides, it was 
not natural. Griselda, as her mother knew, had never been 
a girl of headlong feeling, but still she had had her likes 
and her dislikes. In that matter of the bishopric she was 
keen enough, and no one could evince a deeper interest in 
the subject of a well-made new dress than Griselda Grant- 
ly. It was not possible that she should be indifferent as to 
her future prospects, and she must know that those pros- 
pects depended mainly on her marriage. Her mother was 
almost angry with her, but nevertheless she Avent on very 
gently : 

“You don’t think any thing! But, my darling, you 
must think. You must make up your mind what would 
bo your ansAver if Lord Lufton Avere to propose to you. 
That is what Lady Lufton wishes him to do.” 

“ But he never will, mamma.” 

“And if he did?” 

“ But I’m sure he never Avill. He doesn’t think of such 
a tiling at all — and — and — ” 

“ And what, my dear ?” 

“ I don’t know, mamma.” 

“ Surely you can speak out to me, dearest. All I care 
about is your happiness. Both Lady Lufton and I think 
that it Avould be a happy marriage if you both cared for 
each other enough. She thinks that he is fond of you. 
But if he were ten times Lord Lufton I Avould not tease 
you about it if I thought that you could not learn to care 
about him. What was it you were going to say, my dear?” 

“ Lord Lufton thinks a great deal more of Lucy Robarts 
than he does of — of — of any one else, I believe,” said Gri- 
selda, showing now some little animation by her manner, 
“ dumpy little black thing that she is.” 

“ Lucy Robarts 1” said Mrs. Grantly, taken by surprise 
at finding that her daughter Avas moved by such a passion 
as jealousy, and feeling also perfectly assured that there 
could not be any possible ground for jealousy in such a 
direction as that. “ Lucy Robarts, my dear 1 I don’t sup- 
pose Lord Lufton ever thought of speaking to her except 
in the way of civility.” 

“Yes he did, mamma. Don’t you remember at Fram- 
ley?” 


282 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


Mrs. Grantly began to look back in her mind, and she 
thought she did remember having once observed Lord 
Lufton talking in rather a confidential manner with the 
parson’s sister. But she was sure that there was nothing 
in it. If that was the reason why Griselda was so cold to 
her proposed lover, it would be a thousand pities that it 
should not be removed. 

“Now you mention her, I do remember the young lady,” 
said Mrs. Grantly ; “ a dark girl, very low, and without 
much figure. She seemed to me to keep very much in the 
background.” 

“ I don’t know much about that, mamma.” 

“ As far as I saw her, she did. But, my dear Griselda, 
you should not allow yourself to think of such a thing. 
Lord Lufton, of course, is bound to be civil to any young 
lady in his mother’s house, and I am quite sure that he has 
no other idea whatever with regard to Miss Bobarts. I 
certainly can not speak as to her intellect, for I do not 
think she opened her mouth in my presence ; but — ” 

“ Oh ! she has plenty to say for herself, when she pleases. 
She’s a sly little thing.” 

“ But, at any rate, my dear, she has no personal attrac- 
tions whatever, and I do not at all think that Lord Lufton 
is a man to be taken by — by — by any thing that Miss 
Bobarts might do or say.” 

As those words “personal attractions” were uttered, 
Griselda managed so to turn her neck as to catch a side 
view of herself in one of the mirrors on the wall, and then 
she bridled herself up, and made a little play with her eyes, 
and looked, as her mother thought, very well. “ It is all 
nothing to me, mamma, of course,” she said. 

“Well, my dear, perhaps not. I don’t say that it is. I 
do not wish to put the slightest constraint upon your feel- 
ings. If I did not have the most thorough dependence on 
your good sense and high principles, I should not speak to 
you in this way. But as I have, I thought it best to tell 
you that both Lady Lufton and I should be w^ell pleased if 
we thought that you and Lord Lufton were fond of each 
other.” 

“ I am sure he never thinks of such a thing, mamma.” 

“ And as for Lucy Bobarts, pray get that idea out of 
your head ; if not for your sake, then for his. You should 
give him credit for better taste.” 


FRAMLEY TARSOi^AGE. 


283 


But it was not easy to take any thing out of Griselda’s 
head that she had once taken into it. “As for tastes, 
mamma, there is no accounting for them,” she said ; and 
then the colloquy on that subject was over. The result of 
it on Mrs. Grantly’s mind was a feeling amounting almost 
to a conviction in favor of the Dumbello interest. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

IMPULSIVE. 

I TRUST my readers will all remember how Puck the pony 
was beaten during that drive to Hogglestock. It may be 
presumed that Puck himself, on that occasion, did not suf- 
fer much. His skin was not so soft as Mrs. Robarts’s 
heart. The little beast was full of oats and all the good 
things of this world, and therefore, when the whip touched 
him, he would dance about and shake his little ears, and 
run on at a tremendous pace for twenty yards, making his 
mistress think that he had endured terrible things. But, 
in truth, during those whippings Puck was not the chief 
sufferer. 

Lucy had been forced to declare — forced by the strength 
of her own feelings, and by the impossibility of assenting 
to the propriety of a marriage between Lord Lufton and 

Miss Grantly , she had been forced to declare that she 

did care about Lord Lufton as much as though he were 
her brother. She had said all this to herself— nay, much 
more than this — very often. But now she had said it out 
loud to her sister-in-law ; and she knew that what she had 
said was remembered, considered, and had, to a certain ex- 
tent, become the cause of altered conduct. Fanny alluded 
very seldom to the Lufton s in casual conversation, and 
never spoke about Lord Lufton unless when her husband 
made it impossible that she should not speak of him. Lucy 
had attempted on more than one occasion to remedy this 
by talking about the young lord in a laughing and, per- 
haps, half jeering way ; she had been sarcastic as to his 
hunting and shooting, and had boldly attempted to say a 
word in joke about his love for Griselda. But she felt that 
she had failed ; that she had failed altogether as regarded 
Fanny ; and that as to her brother, she would more prob- 
ably be the means of opening his eyes than have any effect 


284 


FEAMLEY PAESOXAGE. 


in keeping them closed. So she gave up her efforts, and 
spoke no farther word about Lord Lufton. Her secret 
had been told, and she knew that it had been told. 

At this time the two ladies were left a great deal alone 
together in the drawing-room at the Parsonage — more, 
perhaps, than had ever yet been the case since Lucy had 
been there. Lady Lufton was away, and therefore the ah 
most daily visit to Framley Court was not made; and 
Mark, in these days, was a great deal at Barchester, hav- 
ing, no doubt, very onerous duties to perform before lie 
could be admitted as one of that chapter. He went into 
what he was pleased to call residence almost at once — 
that is, he took his month of preaching, aiding also in some 
slight and very dignified way in the general Sunday morn- 
ing services. He did not exactly live at Barchester, be- 
cause the house was not ready. That, at least, was the 
assumed reason. The chattels of Dr. Stanhope, the late 
prebendary, had not been as yet removed, and there was 
likely to be some little delay, creditors asserting their right 
to them. This might have been very inconvenient to a 
gentleman anxiously expecting the excellent house which 
the liberality of past ages had provided for his use, but it 
was not so felt by Mr. Robarts. If Dr. Stanhope’s family 
or creditors would keep the house for the next twelve 
months, he would be well pleased. And by this arrange- 
ment he was enabled to get through his first month of ab- 
sence from the church of Framley without any notice from 
Lady Lufton, seeing that Lady Lufton was in London all 
the time. This also was convenient, and taught our young 
prebendary to look on his new preferment more favorably 
than he had hitherto done. 

Fanny and Lucy were thus left much alone ; and as out 
of the full head the mouth speaks, so is the full heart more 
prone to speak at such periods of confidence as these. 
Lucy, when she first thought of her own state, determined 
to endow herself with a powerful gift of reticence. She 
would never tell her love, certainly, but neither would she 
let concealment feed on her damask cheek, nor would she 
ever be found for a moment sitting like Patience on a 
monument. She would fight her own fight bravely within 
her own bosom, and conquer her enemy altogether. She 
would either preach, or starve, or weary her love into sub- 
jection, and no one should be a bit the wiser. She would 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


2.85 


teach herself to shake hands with Lord Lufton without a 
quiver, and would be prepared to like his wife amazingly 
— unless, indeed, that wife should be Griselda Grantly. 
Such were her resolutions; but, at the end of the first 
week, they v/ere broken into shivers and scattered to the 
winds. 

They had been sitting in the house together the whole 
of one wet day; and as Mark was to dine in Barchester 
with the dean, they had had dinner early, eating with the 
children almost in their laps. It is so that ladies do when 
tlieir husbands leave them to themselves. It was getting 
dusk toward evening, and they were still sitting in the 
drawing-room, the children now having retired, when Mrs. 
Robarts, for the fifth time since her visit to Hogglestock, 
began to express her wish that she could do some good to 
the Crawleys — to Grace Crawley in particular, who, stand- 
ing up there her father’s elbow, learning Greek irregu- 
lar verbs, had appeared to Mrs. Robarts to be an especial 
object of pity. 

“ I don’t know how to set about it,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

N ow any allusion to that visit to Hogglestock always drove 
Lucy’s mind back to the consideration of the subject which 
had most occupied it at the time. She at such moments 
remembered how she had beaten Puck, and how, in her 
lialf bantering but still too serious manner, she had apolo- 
gized for doing so, and had explained the reason, and 
therefore she did not interest herself about Grace Crawley 
as vividly as she should have done. 

“No, one never does,” she said. 

“ I was thinking about it all that day as I drove home,” 
said Fanny. “ The difficulty is this : What can we do with 
her?” 

“ Exactly,” said Lucy, remembering the very point of 
the road at which she had declared that she did like Lord 
Lufton very much. 

“If we could have her here for a month or so, and then 
send her to school — but I know Mr. Crawley would not 
allow us to pay for her schooling.” 

“ I don’t think he would,” said Lucy, with her thoughts 
far removed from Mr. Crawley and his daughter Grace. 

“ And then we should not know what to do with her — 
should we ?” 

“ No, you would not.” 


286 


TKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


“It would never do to have the j)oor girl about the 
house here, with no one to teach her any thing. Mark 
would not teach her Greek verbs, you know.” 

“ I suppose not.” 

“ Lucy, you are not attending to a word I say to you, 
and I don’t think you have for the last hour. I don’t be- 
lieve you know what I am talking about.” 

“ Oh yes, I do — Grace Crawley. I’ll try and teach her 
if you like, only I don’t know any thing myself.” 

“ That’s not what I mean at all, and you know I would 
not ask you to take such a task as that on yourself ; but I 
do think you might talk it over with me.” 

“Might I? very well, I will. What is it? oh, Grace 
Crawley — you want to know who is to teach her the ir- 
regular Greek verbs. Oh dear, Fanny, my head does ache 
so: pray don’t be angry with me.” And then Lucy, 
throwing herself back on the sofa, put one hand up pain- 
fully to her forehead, and altogether gave up the battle. 

Mrs. Robarts was by her side in a moment. “ Dearest 
Lucy, what is it makes your head ache so often now ? you 
used not to have those headaches.” 

“It’s because I’m growing stupid — never mind. We 
will go on about poor Grace. It would not do to have a 
governess, would it?” 

“ I can see that you are not well, Lucy,” said Mrs. Ro- 
barts, with a look of deep concern. “ What is it, dearest? 
I can see that something is the matter.” 

“Something the matter! No, there’s not — nothing 
worth talking of. Sometimes I think I’ll go back to Dev- 
onshire and live there. I could stay with Blanche for a 
time, and then get a lodging in Exeter.” 

“ Go back to Devonshire !” and Mrs. Robarts looked 
as though she thought her sister-in-law was going mad. 
“ Why do you want to go away from us ? This is to be 
your own, own home, always now.” 

“ Is it ? Then I am in a bad way. Oh dear, oh dear, 
what a fool I am! What an idiot I’ve been! Fanny, 1 
don’t think I can stay here ; and I do so wish I’d never 
come. I do — I do — I do, though you look at me so hor- 
ribly and, jumping up, she threw herself into her sister- 
in-law’s arms and began kissing her violently. “ Don’t 
]n*etend to be wounded, for you know that I love you. 
You know that I could live with you all my life, and think 
you were perfect — as you arc ; but — ” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


287 


“ Has Mark said any thing ?” 

“ Not a word — not a ghost of a syllable. It is not Mark 
— oh, Fanny !” 

“ I am afraid I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Ro> 
harts, in a low, tremulous voice, and with deep sorrow 
painted on her face. 

“ Of course you do — of course you know ; you have 
known it all along — since that day in the pony carriage. 
I knew that you knew it. You do not dare to mention 
his name ; would not that tell me that you know it ? And 
I — I am hypocrite enough for Mark, but my hypo*crisy 
* won’t pass muster before you. And, now, had I not bet- 
ter go to Devonshire ?” 

“ Dearest, dearest Lucy.” 

“Was I not right about that labeling? Oh heavens! 
what idiots we girls are ! That a dozen soft words should 
have bowled over me like a ninepin, and left me 'without 
an inch of ground to call my own. And I -was so proud 
of my own strength ; so sure that I should never be miss- 
ish, and spoony, and sentimental! I was so determined to 
like him as Mark does, or you — ” 

“ I shall not like him at all if he has spoken words to 
you that he should not have spoken.” 

“ But he has not.” And then she stojDped a moment to 
consider. “ No, he has not. He never said a word to me 
that would make you angry with him if you knew of it — 
except, perhaps, that he called me Lucy, and that Avas my 
fault, not his.” 

“ Because you talked of soft words.” 

“ Fanny, you have no idea what an absolute fool I am — 
■what an unutterable ass. The soft words of which I tell 
you were of the kind which he speaks to you when he asks 
you how the cow gets on which he sent you from Ireland, 
or to Mark about Ponto’s shoulder. He told me that he 
knew papa, and that he Avas at school Avith Mark, and that, 
as he was such good friends Avith you here at the parson- 
age, he must be good friends with me too. No, it has not 
been his fault. The soft words Avhich did the mischief 
Avere such as those. But hoAV Avell his mother understood 
the Avorld ! In order to have been safe, I should not haA^e 
dared to look at him.” 

“ But, dearest Lucy — ” 

“I knoAV AAdiat you are going to say, and I admit it all. 


288 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


He is no hero. There is nothing on earth wonderful about 
him. I never heard him say a single word of wisdom, or 
utter a thought that was akin to poetry. He devotes all 
liis energies to riding after a fox or killing poor birds, and 
I never heard of his doing a single great action in my life. 
And yet — 

Fanny was so astounded by the way her sister-in-law 
went on that she hardly knew how to speak. “ He is an 
excellent son, I believe,” at last she said — 

“ Except when he goes to Gatherum Castle. I’ll tell you 
what* he has: he has fine straight legs, and a smooth fore- 
head, and a good-humored eye, and white teeth. Was it 
'^^^sisible to see such a catalogue of perfections, and not fall 
cioVn, stricken to the very bone ? But it was not that that 
did it all, Fanhy; I could have stood against that. I think 
I could, at least. It was liis title that killed me. I had 
never spoken to a lord before. Oh me ! what a fool, what 
a beast I have been !” And then she burst out into tears. 

Mrs. Robarts, to tell the truth, could hardly understand 
poor Lucy’s ailment. It was evident enough that her mis- 
ery was real, but yet she spoke of herself and her sufferings 
with so much irony, with so near an approach to joking, 
that it Avas very hard to tell how far she was in earnest. 
Lucy, too, Avas so much given to a species of badinage 
Avhich Mrs. Hobarts did not always quite understand, that 
the latter Avas afraid sometimes to speak out what came 
uppermost to her tongue. But noAV that Lucy was abso- 
lutely in tears, and Avas almost breathless Avith excitement, 
she could not remain silent any longer. “Dearest Lucy, 
]:)ray do not speak in that Avay; it Avill all come right. 
Things ahvays do come right Avhen no one has acted 
Avrongly.” 

“Yes, when nobody has done Avrongly. That’s Avhat 
papa used to call begging the question. But I’ll tell you 
Avhat, Fanny, I will not be beaten. I Avill either kill my- 
self or get through it. I am so heartily self-ashamed that 
I owe it to myself to fight the battle out.” 

“To fight what battle, dearest?” 

“This battle. Here, now, at the present moment, I 
could not meet Lord Lufton. I should have to run like a 
scared foAvl if he Avere to show himself Avithin the gate, 
and I should not dare to go out of the house if I kncAV that 
he Avas in the parish.” 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


289 


“ I don’t see that, for I am sure you have not betr'^eeid 
yourself.” 

“ Well, no ; as for myself, I believe I have done the lying 
and the hypocrisy pretty well. But, dearest Fanny, you 
don’t know half ; and you can not and must not know.” 

“ But I thought you said there had been nothing what- 
ever between you.” 

“ Did I ? Well, to you I have not said a word that was 
not true. I said that he had spoken nothing that it was 
wrong for him to say. It could not be wrong — But never 
mind. I’ll tell you what I mean to do. I have been think- 
ing of it for the last week — only I shall have to tell Mark.” 

“If I were you, I would tell him all.” 

“ What, Mark ! If you do, Fanny, I’ll never, never, nev- 
er speak to you again. Would you, when I have given 
you all my heart in true sisterly love ?” 

Mrs. Robarts had to explain that she had not proposed 
to tell any thing to Mark herself, and was persuaded, more- 
over, to give a solemn promise that she would not tell any 
thing to him unless specially authorized to do so. 

“ I’ll go into a home, I think,” continued Lucy. “ You 
know what those homes are ?” Mrs. Robarts assured her 
that she knew very well, and then Lucy went on : “ A 
year ago I should have said that I was the last girl in En- 
gland to think of such a life, but I do believe now that it 
would be the best thing for me. And then I’ll starve my- 
self, and flog myself, and in that way I’ll get back my own 
mind and my own soul.” 

“ Your own soul, Lucy !” said Mrs. Robarts, in a tone of 
horror. 

“Well, my own heart, if yon like it better; but I hate 
to hear myself talking about hearts. I don’t care for my 
heart. I’d let it go — with this young popinjay lord or any 
one else, so that I could read, and talk, and walk, and 
sleep, and eat, without always feeling that I was wrong 
here: — here — here,” and she pressed her hand vehemently 
against her side. “What is it that I feel, Fanny? Why 
am I so weak in body that I can not take exercise ? Why 
can not I keep my mind on a book for one moment ? Why 
can I not write two sentences together ? Why should ev-. 
ery mouthful that I eat stick in my throat ? Ofl", Fanny, 
is it his legs, think you, or is it his title ?” 

Through all her sorrow — and she was very sorrowful— 

N . 


290 


FR AMLE Y •PARSONAGE. 


IVfc pRobarts could not help smiling. And, indeed, there 
was every now and then something even in Lucy’s look 
that was almost comic. She acted the irony so well with 
which she strove to throw ridicule on herself! “Do laugh 
at me,” she said. “ Nothing on earth will do me so much 
good as that — nothing, unless it be starvation and a wdiip. 
If you would only tell me that I must be a sneak and an 
idiot to care for a man because he is good-looking and a 
lord!” 

“But that has not been the reason. There is a great 
deal more in Lord Lufton than that; and, since I must 
speak, dear Lucy, I can not but say that I should not won- 
der at your being in lote with him, only — only that — ” 

“ Only what ? Come, out Avith it. Do not mince mat- 
tei^or think that I shall be angry Avith you because you 
scold me.” 

“ Only that I should have thought that you Avould have 
been too guarded to have — ^have cared for any gentleman 
till — till he had shoAvn that he cared for you.” 

“ Guarded ! Yes, that’s it ; that’s just the Avord. But 
it’s he that should have been guarded. He should have 
had a fire-guard hung before him — or a loAm-guard, if you 
Avill. Guarded! Was I not guarded, till you all Avould 
drag me out ? Did I want to go there ? And Avhen I Avas 
there, did I not make a fool of myself, sitting in a corner, 
and thinking how much better placed I should have been 
doAvn in the servants’ hall. Lady Lufton — she dragged 
me out, and then cautioned me, and then, then — Why is 
Lady Lufton to have it all her OAvn Avay ? Why am I to be 
sacrificed for her ? I did not Avant to knoAV Lady Lufton, 
or any one belonging to her.” 

“ I can not think that you have any cause to blame Lady 
Lufton, nor, perhaps, to blame any body very much.” 

“ Well, no, it has been all my OAvn fault ; though, for the 
life of me, Fanny, going back and back, I can not see Avhere 
I took the first false step. I do not know Avhere I Avent 
Avrong. One Avrong thing I did, and it is the only thing 
that I do not regret.” 

“ What Avas that, Lucy ?” 

“ I told him a lie.” 

Mrs. RiSbarts Avas altogether in the dark, and feeling 
that she Avas so, she kneAV that she could not gNe counsel 
as a friend or a sister. Lucy had begun by declaring — so 


FEAMLEr PARSONAGE. 


29l 


Mrs. Robarts thought — that nothing had passed between 
her and Lord Lufton but words of most trivial import, and 
yet she now accused herself of falsehood, and declared that 
that falsehood was the only thing which she did not re- 
gret ! 

“ I hope not,” said Mrs. Robarts. “ If you did, you Avere 
very unlike yourself.” 

“But I did, and, Avere he here again, speaking to me in 
the same Avay, I should repeat it. I know I should. If I 
did not, I should have all the Avorld on me. You Avould 
frown on me, and be cold. My darling Fanny, hoAV Avould 
you look if I really displeasured you ?” 

“ I don’t think you Avill do that, Lucy ?” 

“ But if I told him the truth I should, should I not ? 
Speak, now. But no, Fanny, you need not speak. It Avas 
not the fear of you, no, nor even of her, though Heaven 
knows that her terrible glumness Avould be quite unen- 
durable.” 

“ I can not understand you, Lucy. What truth or Avhat 
untruth can you have told him if, as you say, there has 
been nothing between you but ordinary conversation ?” 

Lucy then got up from the sofa and Avalked tAvice the 
length of the room before she spoke. Mrs. Robarts had 
all the ordinary curiosity — I was going to say of a woman, 
but I mean to say of humanity, and she had, moreover, all 
tlie love of a sister. She was both curious and anxious, 
and remained sitting Avhere she was, silent, and with her 
eyes fixed on her companion. 

“Did I say so?” Lucy said at last. “Ho, Fanny, you 
have mistaken me; I did not say that. Ah! yes, about 
the cow and the dog. All that Avas true. I Avas telling 
you of Avhat his soft Avords had been Avhile I Avas becoming 
such a fool. Since that he has said more.” 

“ What more has he said, Lucy ?” 

“ I yearn to tell you, if only I can trust you ;” and Lucy 
knelt down at the feet of Mrs. Robarts, looking up into her 
face and smiling through the remaining drops of her tears. 
“ I Avould fain tell you, but I do not know you yet— Avheth- 
er you are quite true. I could be true — true against all 
the Avorld, if my friend told me. I Avill tell you, Fanny, if 
you say that you can be true. But if you doubt yourself, 
if you must Avhisper all to Mark, then let us be silent.” 

Tliere Avas something almost awful in this to Mrs. Ro- 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 

barts. Hitherto, since their marriage, hardly a tliought 
had passed through her mind which she had not sliared 
with her husband. But now all this had come upon her 
so suddenly that she was unable to think Avhether it would 
be well that she should become the depositary of such a 
secret — not to be mentioned to Lucy’s brother, not to be 
mentioned to her own husband. But who ever yet was 
offered a secret and declined it? Who, at least, ever de- 
clined a love secret ? What sister could do so ? Mrs. 
Robarts therefore gave the promise, smoothing Lucy’s hair 
as she did so, and kissing her forehead and looking into 
her eyes, which, like a rainbow, were the brighter for her 
tears. “ And what has he said to you, Lucy ?” 

“ What ? Only this, that he asked me to be his wife.” 

“ Lord Lufton proposed to you ?” 

“ Yes ; proposed to me ! It is not credible, is it ? You 
can not bring yourself to believe that such a thing happen- 
ed, can you?” And Lucy rose again to her feet as the. 
idea of the scorn with which she felt that others would 
treat her — with which she herself treated herself — made 
the blood rise to her cheek. “ And yet it is not a dream. 
I think that it is not a dream. I think that he really did.” 

“Think, Lucy!” 

“ Well, I may say that I am sure.” 

“ A gentleman would not make you a formal proposal, 
and leave you in doubt as to what he meant.” 

“ Oh dear, no. There was no doubt at all of that kind 
— none in the least. Mr. Smith, in asking Miss Jones to 
do- him the honor of becoming Mrs. Smith, never spoke 
more plainly. I was alluding to the possibility of having 
dreamt it all.” 

“ Lucy !” 

“Well, it was not a dream. Here, standing here, on 
this very spot, on that flower of the carpet, he begged me 
a dozen times to be his wife. I wonder whether you and 
Mark would let me cut it out and keep it.” 

“ And what answer did you make to him ?” 

“ I lied to him, and told him that I did not love him.” 

“ You refused him ?” 

“ Yes, I refused a live lord. There is some satisfaction 
in having that to think of, is there not? Fanny, was I 
wicked to tell that falsehood ?” 

“ And why did you refuse him ?” 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


293 


“Why? Can you ask? Think what it would have 
been to go down to Framley Court, and to tell her lady- 
ship in the course of conversation that I was engaged to 
her son. Think of Lady Lufton. But yet it was not that, 
Fanny. Had I thought that it was good for him, that he 
would not have repented, I would have braved any thing 
for his sake — even your frown, for you would have frown- 
ed. You would have thought it sacrilege for me to marry 
Lord Lufton ! You know you would.” 

Mrs. Robarts hardly knew how to say what she thought, 
or, indeed, what she ought to think. It was a matter on 
which much meditation would be required before she could 
give advice, and there was Lucy expecting counsel from 
her at that very moment. If Lord Lufton really loved 
Lucy Robarts, and was loved by Lucy Robarts, why should 
not they two become man and wife? And yet she did 
feel that it would be — perhaps, not sacrilege, as Lucy had 
said, but something almost as troublesome. What would 
Lady Lufton say, or think, or feel ? What would she say, 
and think, and feel as to that parsonage from which so dead- 
ly a blow would fall upon her ? Would she not accuse the 
vicar and the vicar’s wife of the blackest ingratitude? 
Would life be endurable at Framley under such circum- 
stances as those ? 

“ What you tell me so surprises me that I hardly as yet 
know how to speak about it,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

“It was amazing, was it not? He must have been in- 
sane at the time; there can be no' other excuse made for 
him. I wonder whether there is any thing of that sort in 
the family.” 

“ What, madness ?” said Mrs. Robarts, quite in earnest. 

“Well, don’t you think he must have been mad when 
such an idea as that came into his head ? But you don’t 
believe it ; I can see that. And yet it is as true as heaven. 
Standing exactly here, on this spot, lie said that he would 
2:>ersevere till I accejDted his love. I'wonder what made 
me specially observe that both his feet were within 'the 
lines of that division.” 

“ And you would not accept his love ?” 

“Ro, I would have nothing to say to it. Look you, I 
stood here, and, putting my hand upon my heart, for he 
bade me to do that, I said that I could not love him ?” 

“ And wdiat then ?” 


294 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ He went away with a look as though he were heart- 
broken. He crept away slowly, saying that he was the 
most Avretched man alive. For a minute I believed him, 
and could almost have called him back. But no, Fanny, 
do not think that I am over proud or conceited about my 
conquest. He had not reached the gate before he Avas 
thanking God for his escape.” 

“ That I do not believe.” 

“ But I do ; and I thought of Lady Lufton too. Hoav 
could I bear that she should scorn me, and accuse me of 
stealing her son’s heart ? I knoAV that it is better as it is ; 
but tell me, is a falsehood ahvays Avrong, or can it be pos- 
sible that the end should justify the means? Ought I to 
have told him the truth, and to have let him knoAv that I 
could almost kiss the ground on AA^hich he stood ?” 

This was a question for the doctors which Mrs. Robarts 
Avould not take upon herself to answer. She Avould not 
make that falsehood matter of accusation, but neither Avould 
she pronounce for it any absolution. In that matter Lucy 
must regulate her OAvn conscience. “ And what shall I do 
next ?” said Lucy, still speaking in a tone that Avas half 
tragic and half jeering. 

“ Do ?” said Mrs. Robarts. 

“Yes, something must be done. If I Avere a man I 
should go to SAvitzerland, of course ; or, as the case is a bad 
one, perhaps as far as Hungary. What is it that girls do ? 
they don’t die noAvadays, I believe.” 

“Lucy, I do not believe that you care for him one jot. 
If you Avere in love you Avould not speak of it like that.” 

“ There, there. That’s my only hope. If I could laugh 
at 'myself till it had become incredible to you, I also, by 
degrees, should cease to believe that I had cared for him. 
But, Fanny, it is very hard. If I Avere to starve, and rise 
before daybreak, and pinch myself, or do some nasty Avork 
— ^clean the pots and pans and the candlesticks — that, I 
think, Avould do the* most good. I have got a piece of 
sackcloth, and I mean to Avear that when I have made it up.” 

“ You are joking hoav, Lucy, I knoAV.” 

“ ISTo, by my Avord — not in the spirit of what I am say- 
ing. How shall I act upon my heart if I do not do it 
through the blood and the flesh ?” 

“ Do you not pray that God Avill give you strength to 
bear these troubles ?” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


295 


“ But how is one to word one’s prayer, or how even to 
word one’s wishes? I do not know what is the wrong 
that I have done. I say it boldly ; in this matter I can not 
see my own fault. I have simply found that I have been 
a fool.” 

It was now quite dark in the room, or would have been 
so to any one entering it afresh. They had remained there 
talking till their eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, 
and would still have remained had they not suddenly been 
disturbed by the sound of a horse’s feet. 

“There is Mark,” said Fanny, jumping up and running 
to the b^ll, that lights might be ready when he should enter. 

“ I thought he remained in Barchester to-night.” 

“ And so did I ; but he said it might be doubtful. What 
shall we do if he has not dined ?” 

That, I believe, is always the first thought in the mind 
of a good wife when her husband returns home. Has he 
had his dinner ? What can I give him for dinner ? Will 
he like his dinner ? Oh dear ! oh dear ! there’s nothing in 
the house but cold mutton. But on this occasion the lord 
of the mansion had dined, and came home radiant with 
good-humor, and owing, perhaps, a little of his radiance to 
the dean’s claret. “ I have told them,” said he, “ that they 
may keep possession of the house for the next two months, 
and they have agreed to that arrangement.” 

“ That is very pleasant,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

“ And I don’t think we shall have so much trouble about 
the dilapidations after all.” 

“ I am very glad of that,” said Mrs. Robarts. But, nev- 
ertheless, she was thinking much more of Lucy than of the 
house in Barchester Close. 

“ You won’t betray me,” said Lucy, as she gave her sis- 
ter-in-law a parting kiss at night. 

“ No, not unless you give me permission.” 

“ Ah ! I shall never do that.” 


CHAPTER XXYH. 

SOUTH AUDREY STREET. 

The Duke of Omnium had notified to Mr. Fothergill his 
wish that some arrangement should be made about the 
Chaldicotes mortgages, and Mr. Fothergill had understood 


296 


PRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


what the duke meant as well as though his instructions had 
been written down with all a lawyer’s verbosity. The 
duke’s meaning was this, that Chaldicotes was to be swept 
up and garnered, and made part and parcel of the Gather- 
um property. It had seemed to the duke that that affair 
between his friend and Miss Dunstable was hanging fire, 
and therefore it would be well that Chaldicotes should be 
swept up and garnered. And, moreover, tidings had come 
into the western division of the county that young Frank 
Gresham, of Boxall Hill, Avas in treaty with the government 
for the purchase of all that croAvn property called the Chace 
of Chaldicotes. It had been offered to the duke^but the 
duke had given no definite answer. Had he got his money 
back from Mr. Sowerby, he could have forestalled Mr. 
Gresham ; but noAV that did not seem to be probable, and 
his grace was resolved that either the one property or the 
other should be duly garnered. Therefore Mr. Fothergill 
Avent up to toAvn, and therefore Mr. Sowerby was, most 
unwillingly, compelled to haA^e a business interview Avith 
Mr. Fothergill. In the mean time, since last we saw him, 
Mr. SoAverby had learned from his sister the answer AA'hich 
Miss Dunstable had given to his proposition, and knew that 
he had no farther hope in that direction. 

There was no farther hope thence of absolute deliverance, 
but there had been a tender of money services. To give 
Mr. SoAverby his due, he had at once declared that it Avould 
be quite out of the question that he should noAV receive 
any assistance of that sort from Miss Dunstable ; but his 
sister had explained to him that it would be a mere busi- 
ness transaction ; that Miss Dunstable would receive her 
interest ; and that, if she Avould be content with four per 
cent., Avhereas the duke received five, and other creditors 
six, seven, eight, ten, and Heaven only knows how much 
more, it might be well for all parties. He himself under- 
stood, as Avell as Fothergill had done, what was the mean- 
ing of the duke’s message. Chaldicotes Avas to be gather- 
ed up and garnered, as had been done Avith so many another 
fair property lying in those regions. It Avas to be SAval- 
loAved Avhole, and the master Av^as to walk out from his old 
family hall, to leave the old Avoods that he loved, to give 
up utterly to another the parks, and paddocks, and pleas- 
ant places which he had knoAvn from his earliest infancy, 
and oAvned from his^earliest manhood. 


niAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


297 


There can be nothing more bitter to a man than such a 
surrender. What, compared to this, can be the loss of 
wealth to one who has himself made it, and brought it to- 
gether, but has never actually seen it with his bodily eyes ? 
Siich wealth has come by one chance, and goes by another ; 
the loss of it is part of the game which the man is playing ; 
and if he can not lose as well as win, he is a poor, Aveak, 
cowardly creature. Such men, as a rule, do know hoAV to 
bear a mind fairly equal to adversity. But to have squan- 
dered the acres which have descended from generation to . 
generation ; to be the member of - one’s family that has 
ruined that family; to have SAvallowed up in one’s own 
maw all that should have graced one’s children and one’s 
grandchildren! It seems to me that the misfortunes of 
this Avorld can hardly go beyond that ! 

Mr. Sowerby, in spite of his recklessness and that dare- 
devil gayety Avhich he knew so well how to Avear and use, 
felt all this as keenly as any man could feel it. It had been 
absolutely his own fault. The acres had come to him all 
his own, and noAV, before his death, every one of them 
Avould have gone bodily into that greedy maAV. The duke 
had bought up nearly all the debts Avhich had been secured 
upon the property, and now could make a clean SAveep of 
it. Sowerby, Avhen he received that message from Mr. 
Fothergill, knoAV Avell that this was intended ; and he kncAV 
well, also, that Avhen once he should cease to be Mr. Sow- 
erby of Chaldicotes, he need never again hope to be re- 
turned as member for West Barsetshire. This Avorld would 
for him be all over. And Avhat must such a man feel Avhen 
he reflects that this Avorld is for him all over ? 

On the morning in question he went to his appointment, 
still bearing a cheerful countenance. Mr. Fothergill, Avhen 
in town on such business as this, always had a room at his 
service in the house of Messrs. Gumption and Gagebee, 
the duke’s London laAV agents, and it was thither that Mr. 
Sowerby had been summoned. The house of business of 
Messrs. Gumption and Gagebee Avas in South Audley Street, 
and it may be said that there was no spot on the Avhole 
earth Avhich Mr. Sowerby so hated as he did the gloomy, 
dingy back sitting-room up stairs in that house. He had 
been there very often, but had never been there Avithout 
annoyance. It Avas a horrid torture-chamber, kept for such 
dread purposes as these, and no doubt hacTbeen furnished. 


298 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


and papered, and curtained with the express object of 
finally breaking down the spirits of such poor country gen- 
tlemen as chanced to be involved. Every thing was of a 
brown crimson — of a crimson that had become brown. 
Sunlight, real genial light of the sun, never made its way 
there, and no amount of candles could illumine the gloom 
of that brownness. The windows were never washed; 
the ceiling was of a dark brown ; the old Turkey carpet 
was thick with dust, and brown withal. The ungainly f 
office-table, in the middle of the room, had been covered 
with black leather, but that was now brown. There was. 
a bookcase full of dingy brown law-books in a recess on 
one side of the fireplace, but no one had touched them for 
years, and over the chimney-piece hung some old legal 
pedigree table, black with soot. Such was the room which 
Mr. Fothergill always used in the business house of Messrs. 
Gumption and Gagebee, in South Audley Street, near to 
Park Lane. 

I once heard this room spoken of by an old friend of 
mine, one Mr. Gresham of Greshamsbury, the father of 
Frank Gresham, who was now about to purchase the part 
of the Chace of Chaldicotes which belonged to the crown. 
He had also had evil days, though now happily they were 
past and gone ; and he, too, had sat in that room, and lis- 
tened to the voice of men who were powerful over his 
property, and intended to use that power. The idea which 
he left on my mind was much the same as that which I had 
entertained, when a boy, of a certain room in the castle of 
Udolpho. There was a chair in that IJdolpho room in 
which those who sat were dragged out limb by limb, the 
head one way and the legs another ; the fingers were drag- 
ged off from the hands, and the teeth out from the jaws, 
and the hair off the head, and the flesh from the bones, and 
the joints from their sockets, till there was nothing left but 
a lifeless trunk seated in the chair. Mr. Gresham, as ho 
told me, always sat in the same seat, and the tortures he 
suffered when so seated, the dislocations of his property 
which he was forced to discuss, the operations on his very 
self which he was forced to witness, made me regard that 
room as worse than the chamber of IJdolpho. Efe, luckily 
— a rare instance of good fortune — had lived to see all his 
bones and joints put together again, and flourishing sound- 
ly ; but he never could speak of the room without horror. 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


299 


“ No consideration on earth,” he once said to me, very 
solemnly, “ I say none, should make me again enter that 
room.” And, indeed, this feeling was so strong with him, 
that from the day when his affairs took a turn he would 
never even Avalk down South Audley Street. On the 
morning in question, into this torture-chamber Mr. Sower- 
by went, and there, after some two or three minutes, he 
was joined by Mr. Fothergill. 

Mr. Fothergill was, in one respect, like to his friend 
Sowerby. He enacted two altogether different persons 
on occasions which were altogether different. Generally 
speaking, with the world at large, he was a jolly, rollick- 
ing, popular man, fond of eating and drinking, known to 
be devoted to the duke’s interests, and supposed to be 
somewhat unscrupulous, or, at any rate, hard when they 
were concerned, but in other respects a good-natured fel- 
low ; and there was a report about that he had once lent 
somebody money without charging him interest or taking 
security. On the present occasion Sowerby saw at a 
glance that he had come thither with all the aptitudes and 
appurtenances of his business about him. He walked into 
the room with a short, quick step ; there was no smile on 
his face as he shook hands with his old friend ; he brought 
with him a box laden with papers and parchments, and he 
had not been a minute in the room before he was seated in 
one of the old dingy chairs. 

“How long ha^ge you been in town, Fothergill?” said 
Sowerby, still standing with his back against the chimney. 
He had resolved on only one thing — that nothing should 
induce him to touch, look at, or listen to any of those pa- 
pers. He knew well enough that no good would come of 
that. He also had his own lawyer, to see that he was pil- 
fered according to rule. 

“How long? Since the day before yesterday. I never 
was so busy in my life. The duke, as usual, wants to have 
every thing done at once.” 

“If he wants to have all that I owe him jDaid at once, 
he is like to be out in his reckoning.” 

“Ah! well. I’m glad you are ready to come quickly to 
business, because it’s always best. Won’t you come and 
sit down here ?” 

“ No, thank you. I’ll stand.” 

“But we shall have to go through these figures, you 
know.” 


300 


PKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“Not a figure, Fothergill. What good would it do? 
None to me, and none to you either, as I take it ; if there 
is any thing wrong. Potter’s fellows will find it out. What 
is it the duke wants ?” 

“Well, to tell the truth, he w'ants his money.” 

“ In one sense, and that the main sense, he has got it. 
He gets his interest regularly, does not he ?” 

“ Pretty well for that, seeing how times are. But, Sow- 
erby, that’s nonsense. You understand the duke as w^ell as 
I do, and you know very well what he wants. He has 
given you time, and if you had taken any steps toward get- 
ting the money, you might have saved the property.” 

“ A hundred and eighty thousand pounds ! What steps 
could I take to get that ? Fly a bill, and let Tozer have 
it to get cash on it in the city !” 

“We hoped you were going to marry.” 

“That’s all off.” ^ 

“ Then I don’t think you can blame the duke for looking 
for his own. It does not suit him to have so large a sum 
standing out any longer. You see, he wants land, and 
will have it. Had you paid off what you owed him, he 
would have purchased the crown property ; and now, i1 
seems, young Gresham has bid against him, and is to have 
it. This has riled him, and I may as well tell you fairly 
that he is determined to have either money or marbles.” 

“You mean that I am to be dispossessed.” 

“Well, yes, if you choose to call it so. My instructions 
are to foreclose at once.” 

“ Then I must say the duke- is treating me most uncom- 
monly ill.” 

“Well, Sowerby, I can’t see it.” 

“ I' can, though. He has his money like clock-work; 
and he has bought up these -debts from persons who would 
have never disturbed me as long as they got their interest.” 

“ Haven’t you had the seat ?” 

“The seat! and is it expected that I am to pay for 
that?” 

“ I don’t see that any one is asking you to j^ay for it. 
You are like a great many other people that I know. You 
want to eat your cake and have it. You have been eating 
it for the last twenty years, and now you think yourself 
very ill used because the duke wants to have his turn.” 

“ I shall think myself very ill used if he sells me out — 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


301 


worse than ill used. I do not want to use strong language, 
but it will be more than ill usage. I can hardly Mieve 
that he really means to treat me in that way.” 

“ It is very hard that he should want his own money !” 

“ It is not his money that he wants. It is my property.” 

“ And has he not paid for it ? Have you not had the 
price of your property? Now, Sowerby, it is of no use 
for you to be angry ; you have known for the last three 
years what was coming on you as well as I did. Why 
should the duke lend you money without an object ? Of 
course he has his own views. But I do say this, he has 
not hurried you ; and, had you been able to do any thing 
to save the place, you might have done it. You have had 
time enough to look about you.” 

Sowerby still stood in the place in which he had first 
fixed himself, and now for a while he remained silent. His 
face was very stern, and there was in his countenance none 
of those winning looks which often told so powerfully with 
his young friends — which had caught Lord Lufton and had 
charmed Mark Robarts. The world was going against 
him, and things around him were coming to an end. He 
was beginning to perceive that he had in truth eaten his 
cake, and that there was now little left for him to do, un- 
less he chose to blow out his brains. He had said to Lord 
Lufton that a man’s back should be broad enough for any 
burden with which he himself might load it. Could he 
now boast that his back was broad enough and strong 
enough for this burden ? But he had even then, at that 
bitter moment, a strong . remembrance that it behooved 
him still to be a man. His final ruin was coming on him, 
and he would soon be swept away out of the knowledge 
and memory of those with whom he had lived. But, nev- 
ertheless, he would bear himself well to the last. It was 
true that he had made his own bed, and he understood the 
justice which required him to lie ujoon it. 

During all this time Fothergill occujDied himself with the 
papers. He continued to turn over one sheet after another 
as though he were deeply engaged in money considerations 
and calculations. But, in truth, during alt that time he 
did not read a word. There Avas nothing there for him to 
read. The reading and the Avriting, and the arithmetic in 
such matters, are done by underlings, not by such big men 
as Mr. Fothergill. His business AA^as to tell Sowerby that 


302 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


he was to go. All those records there were of very little 
use. The duke had the power; Sowerby knew that the 
duke had the power ; and Fothergill’s business was to ex- 
plain that the duke. meant to exercise his power. He was 
used to the 'vvork, and went on turning over the papers, 
and pretending to read them, as though his doing so were 
of the greatest moment. 

“ I shall see the duke myself,” Mr. Sowerby said at last, 
and there was something almost dreadful in the sound of 
his voice. 

“ You know that the duke won’t see you on a matter of 
this kind. He never speaks to any one about money; you 
know that as well as I do.” 

“By , but he shall speak to me. Hever speak to 

any one about money ! Why is he ashamed to speak of it 
when he loves it so dearly ? He shall see me.” 

“ I have nothing farther to say, Sowerby. Of course, I 
sha’n’t ask his grace to see you ; and if you force your way 
in on him, you know what will happen. It won’t be my 
doing if he is set against you. Nothing that you say to 
me in that way — nothing that any body ever says, goes 
beyond myself.” 

“ I shall manage the matter through my own lawyer,” 
said Sowerby ; and then he took his hat, and, without ut- 
tering another Avord, left the room. 

We know not what may be the nature of that eternal 
punishment to which those Avill be doomed who shall be 
judged to have been evil at the last, but methinks that no 
more terrible torment can be devised than the memory of 
self-imposed ruin. What wretchedness can exceed that 
of remembering from day to day that the race has been all 
run, and has been altogether lost ; that the last chance has 
gone, and has gone in vain ; that the end has come, and 
with it disgrace, contempt, and self-scorn — disgrace that 
never can be redeemed, contempt that never can be re- 
moved, and self-scorn that Avill eat into one’s vitals forever? 

Mr. Sowerby was noAV fifty ; he had enjoyed his chances 
in life ; and as he Avalked back, up South Audley Street, 
he could not but think of the uses he had made of them. 
He had fillen into the possession of a fine property on the 
attainment of his manhood ; he had been endowed with 
more than average gifts of intellect ; never-failing health 
had been given to him, and a vision fairly clear in discern- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


303 


ing good fi*oni evil ; and now to what a pass had he 
brought himself! 

And that man Fothergill had put all this before him in 
so terribly clear a light! Now that the day for his final 
demolishment had arrived, the necessity that he should be 
demolished — finished away at once, out of sight and out 
of mind — had not been softened, or, as it were, half hidden 
by any ambiguous phrase. “You have had your cake, and 
eaten it — eaten it greedily. Is not that sufticient for you ? 
Would you eat your cake twice ? Would you have a suc- 
cession of cakes? No, my friend, there is no succession 
of these cakes for those who eat them greedily. Your 
proposition is not a fair one, and we, who have the whip- 
hand of you, will not listen to it. Be good enough to van- 
ish. Permit yourself to be swept quietly into the dunghill. 
All that there was about you of value has departed from 
you ; and allow me to say that you are now — rubbish.’’ 
And then the ruthless besom comes with irresistible rush, 
and the rubbish is swept into the pit, there to be hidden 
forever from the sight. 

And the pity of it is this — that a man, if he will only re- 
strain his greed, may eat his cake and yet have it ; ay, and 
in so doing will have twice more the flavor of the cake 
than he who with gormandizing maw will devour his dain- 
ty all at once. Cakes in this world will grow by being fed 
on, if only the feeder be not too insatiate. On all Avhich 
wisdom Mr. Sowerby pondered with sad heart and very 
melancholy mind as he walked away from the premises of 
Messrs. Gumption and Gagebee. 

His intention had been to go down to the House after 
leaving Mr. Fothergill, but the prospect of immediate ruin 
had been too much for him, and he knew that he was not 
fit to be seen at once among the haunts of men. And he 
had intended also to go down to Barchester early on the 
following morning — only for a few hours, that he might 
make farther arrangements respecting that bill which Ro- 
barts had accepted for him. That bill — the second one — 
had now become due, and Mr. Tozer had been with him. 

“Now it ain’t no use in life, Mr. Sowerby,” Tozer had 
said. “ I ain’t got the paper myself, nor didn’t ’old it not 
two hours. It went away through Tom Tozer ; you knows 
that, Mr. Sowerby, as well as I do.” 

Now, whenever Tozer, Mr. Sowerby’s Tozer, spoke of 


304 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


Tom Tozer, Mr. Sowerby knew that seven devils were be- 
ing evoked, each worse than the first devil. Mr. Sowerby 
did feel something like sincere regard, or rather love, for 
that poor parson whom he had inveigled into mischief, and 
would fain save him, if it were possible, from the Tozer 
fang. Mr. Forrest, of the Barchester Bank, would proba- 
bly take up that last five hundred pound bill on behalf of 
Mr. Robarts, only it would be needful that he, Sowerby, 
should run down and see that this was properly done. As 
to the other bill — the former and lesser one — as to that, 
Mr. Tozer would probably be quiet for a while. 

Such had been Sowerby’s programme for these two 
days ; but now — what farther possibility was there now 
that he should care for Robarts, or any other human being 
— he that was to be swept at once into the dung-heap ? 

In this frame of mind he walked up South AuMey Street, 
and crossed one side of Grosvenor Square, and went almost 
mechanically into Green Street. At the farther end of 
Green Street, near to Park Lane, lived Mr. and Mrs. Har- 
old Smith. 


CHAPTER XXVIH. 

DE. THOENE. 

When Miss Dunstable met her friends the Greshams — 
young Frank Gresham and his wife — at Gatherum Castle, 
she immediately asked after one Dr. Thorne, who was 
Mrs. Gresham’s uncle. Dr. Thorne was an old bachelor, in 
whom both as a man and a doctor Miss Dunstable was in- 
clined to place much confidence. Hot that she had ever in- 
trusted the cure of her bodily ailments to Dr. Thorne — for 
she kept a doctor of her own. Dr. Easyman, for this pur- 
pose — and it may moreover be said that she rarely had 
bodily ailments requiring the care of any doctor. But she 
always spoke of Dr. Thorne among her friends as a man of 
wonderful erudition and judgment, and had once or twice 
asked and acted on his advice in matters of much moment. 
Dr. Thorne was not a man accustomed to the London 
world ; he kept no house there, and seldom even visited 
the metropolis; but Miss Dunstable had known him at 
Greshamsbury, where he lived, and there had for some 
months past grown up a considerable intimacy between 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


305 


them. He was now staying at the house of his niece, Mrs. 
Gresham ; but the chief reason of his coming up had been 
a desire expressed by Miss Dunstable that he should do 
so. She had wished for his advice ; and, at the instigation 
of his niece, he had visited London and given it. 

The special piece of business as to which Dr. Thorne had 
thus been summoned from the bedsides of his country pa- 
tients, and especially from the bedside of Lady Arabella 
Gresham, to whose son his niece was married, related to 
certain large money interests, as to which one might have 
imagined that Dr. Thorne’s advice would not be peculiarly 
valuable. He had never been much versed in such mat- 
ters on his own account, and was knowing neither in the 
ways of the share market nor in the prices of land. But 
Miss Dunstable Avas a lady accustomed to have her oAvn 
Avay, and to be indulged in her OAvn wishes Avithout being 
called on to give adequate reasons for them. 

“ My dear,” she had said to young Mrs. Gresham, “ if 
your uncle don’t come up to London noAV, Avhen I make 
such a point of it, I shall think that he is a bear and a sav- 
age, and I certainly Avill never speak to him again, or to 
Frank, or to you ; so you had better see to it.” Mrs. 
Gresham had not probably taken her friend’s threat as 
meaning quite all that it threatened. Miss Dunstable ha- 
bitually used strong language ; and those Avho kneAV her 
Avell generally understood Avhen she Avas to be taken as 
expressing her thoughts by figures of speech. In this in- 
stance she had not meant it all; but, nevertheless, Mrs. 
Gresham had used violent influence in bringing the poor 
doctor up to London. 

“ Besides,” said Miss Dunstable, ‘‘ I have resolved 'on 
having the doctor at my coiwersazione, and if he Avon’t 
come of himself, I shall go down and fetch him. I have 
set my heart on trumping my dear friend Mrs. Proudie’s 
best card ; so 1 mean to get CA^ery body.” 

The upshot of all this Avas, that the doctor did come up 
to toAvn, and remained the best part of a Aveek at his niece’s 
house in Portman Square — to the great disgust of the Lady 
Arabella, who conceived that she must die if neglected for 
three days. As to the matter of business, I have no doubt 
but that he was of great use. He Avas possessed of com- 
mon sense and an honest j^urpose ; and I am inclined to 
think that they are often a sufficient counterpoise to a con- 


306 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


siderable amount of worldly experience. If one' could have 
the worldly experience also ! True ; but then it is so diffi- 
cult tQy get every thing. But with that special matter of 
business we need not have any farther concern. We will 
presume it to have been discussed and completed, and will 
now dress ourselves for Miss Dunstable’s conversazione. 

But it must not be supposed that she was so poor in gen- 
ius as to call her party openly by a name borrowed for 
the nonce from Mrs. Proudie. It was only among her spe- 
cially intimate friends, Mrs. Harold Smith and some few 
dozen others, that she indulged in this little joke. There 
had been nothing in the least pretentious about the card 
with wffiich she summoned her friends to her house on this 
occasion. She had merely signified in some ordinary way 
that she would be glad to see them as soon after nine 
o’clock on Thursday evening, the — instant, as might be 
convenient. But all the world understood that all the 
world was to be gathered together at Miss Dunstable’s 
house on the night in question ; that an efibrt was to be 
made to bring together people of all classes, gods and gi- 
ants, saints and sinners ; those rabid through the strength 
of their morality, such as our dear friend Lady Lufton, and 
those Avho were rabid in the opposite direction, such as 
Lady Hartletop, the Duke of Omnium, and Mr. Sowerby. 
An orthodox martyr had been caught from the East, and 
an oily latter-day St. Paul from the other side of the water 
— to the horror and amazement of Archdeacon Grantly, 
who had come up all the way from Plumstead to be pres- 
ent on the occasion. Mrs. Grantly also had hankered to 
be there ; but when she heard of the presence of the latter- 
day St. Paul, she triumphed loudly over her husband, who 
had made no offer to take her. That Lords Brock and De 
Terrier were to be at the gathering was nothing. The 
^ pleasant king of the gods and the courtly chief of the gi- 
ants could shake hands with each otlier in any house with 
the greatest pleasure ; but men were to meet who, in ref- 
erence to each other, could shake nothing but their heads 
or their fists. Supplehouse was to be there, and Harold 
Smith, who now hated his enemy with a hatred surpassing 
that of women — or even of politicians. The minor gods, 
it was thought, would congregate together in one room, 
very bitter in their present state of banishment, and the 
minor giants in another, terribly loud in their triumph. 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


307 


That is the fault of the giants, who otherwise are not bad 
fellows ; they are unable to endure the weight of any tem- 
porary success. When attempting Olympus — and this 
work of attempting is doubtless their natural condition — 
they scratch and scramble, diligently using both toes and 
fingers with a mixture of good-humored virulence and self- 
satisfied industry that is gratifying to all parties. But 
whenever their efforts are unexpectedly, and for themselves 
unfortunately successful, they are so taken aback that they 
lose the power of behaving themselves with even gigant- 
esque propriety. 

Such, so great and so various, was to be the intended 
gathering at Miss Dunstable’s house. She herself laughed, 
and quizzed herself — speaking of the affair to Mrs. Harold 
Smith as though it were an excellent joke, and to Mrs. 
Proudie as though she ‘were simply emulous of rivaling 
those world-famous assemblies in Gloucester Place ; but 
the town at large knew that an effort Avas being made, and 
it was supposed that even Miss Dunstable wms somewhat 
nervous. In spite of her excellent joking, it Avas presumed 
that she Avould be unhappy if she failed. 

To Mrs. Frank Gresham she did speak with some little 
seriousness. “ But Avhy on earth should you give your- 
self all this trouble ?” that lady had said, Avhen Miss Dim- 
stable OAvned that she was doubtful, and unhappy in her 
doubts, as to the coming of one of -the great colleagues of 
Mr. Supplehouse. “When such hundreds are coming, big 
Avigs and little Avigs of all shades, Avhat can it matter 
Avhether Mr. Towers be there or not ?” 

But Miss Dunstable had answered almost Avith a screech, 

“My dear, it Avill be nothing Avithout him. You don’t 
understand; but the fact is, that Tom ToAvers is every 
body and every thing at present.” 

And then, by no means for the first time, Mrs. Gresham 
began to lecture her friend as to her vanity ; in ansAver to 
Avhich lecture Miss Dunstable mysteriously hinted that if 
she Avere only alloAved her full SAving on this occasion — if 
all the Avorld Avould noAV indulge her, she Avould — She 
did not quite say Avhat she Avould do, but the inference 
draAAUi by Mrs. Gresham Avas this : that if the incense noAV 
offered on the altar of Fashion Avere accepted. Miss Dim- 
stable Avbuld at once abandon the pomps and vanities of 
this Avicked Avorld, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh. 


308 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ But the doctor will stay, my dear ? I hope I may 
look on that as fixed.” 

Miss Dunstable, in making this demand on the doctor’s 
time, showed an energy quite equal to that with which she 
invoked the gods that Tom Towers might not be absent. 
ISToav, to tell the truth. Dr. Thorne had at first thought it 
very unreasonable that he should be asked to remain up in 
London in order that he might be present at an evening 
party, and had for a while pertinaciously refused; but 
when he learned that three or four prime ministers were 
expected, and that it was possible that even Tom Towers 
might be there in the flesh, his philosophy also had become 
weak, and he had written to Lady Arabella to say that his 
prolonged absence for two days farther must be endured, 
and that the mild tonics, morning and- evening, might be 
continued. 

But why should Miss Dunstable be so anxious that Dr. 
Thorne should be present on this grand occasion ? Why, 
indeed, should she be so frequently inclined to summon him 
away from his country practice, his compounding board, 
and his useful ministrations to rural ailments ? The doc- 
tor was connected with her by no ties of blood. Their 
friendship, intimate as it was, had as yet been but of short 
date. She was a very rich w'oman, capable of purchasing 
all manner of advice and good counsel, whereas he was so 
far from being rich that any continued disturbance to his 
practice might be inconvenient to him. N evertheless. Miss 
Dunstable seemed to have no more comiDunction in making 
calls upon his time than she might have felt had he been 
her brother. N o ideas on this matter suggested themselves 
to the doctor himself. He was a simple-minded man, tak- 
ing things as they came, and especially so taking things 
that came pleasantly. He liked Miss Dunstable, and was 
gratified by her friendship, and did not think of asking 
himself whether she had a right to put him to trouble and 
inconvenience. But such ideas did occur to Mrs. Gresham, 
the doctor’s niece. Had Miss Dunstable any object, and, 
if so, what object ? Was it simply veneration for the doc- 
tor, or was it caprice? AYas it eccentricity, or could it 
possibly be love ? 

In* speaking of the ages of these two friends, it may be 
said in round terms that the lady was well past forty, and 
that the gentleman was well past fifty. Under such cir- 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


309 


cumstances could it be love ? The lady, too, was one who 
had had offers almost by the dozen — offers from men of 
rank, from men of fashion, and from men of power ; from 
men endowed with personal attractions, with pleasant man- 
ners, with cultivated tastes, and with eloquent tongues. 
Not only had she loved none such, but by none such had 
she been cajoled into an idea that it was possible that she 
could love them. That Dr. Thorne’s tastes were cultivated, 
and his manners pleasant, might probably be admitted by 
three or four old friends in the country who valued him ; 
but the world in London — that world to which Miss Dun- 
stable was accustomed, and which Avas apparently becom- 
ing dearer to her day by day, Avould not have regarded 
the doctor as a man likely to become the object of a lady’s 
passion. 

But, nevertheless, the idea did occur to Mrs. Gresham. 
She had been brought up at the elboAV of this country 
practitioner; she had lived Avith him as though she had 
been his daughter ; she had been for years the ministering 
angel of his household ; and, till her heart had opened to 
the natural love of Avomanhood, all her closest sympathies 
had been Avith him. In her eyes the doctor Avas all but 
perfect ; and it did not seem to her to be out of the ques- 
tion that Miss Dunstable should have fallen in love Avith 
her uncle. 

Miss Dunstable once said to Mrs. Harold Smith that it 
Avas t^ossible that she might marry, the only condition then 
expressed being this, that the man elected should be one 
Avho Avas quite indifferent as to money. Mrs. Harold Smith, 
Avho, by her friends, Avas presumed to knoAV the Avorld Avith 
tolerable accuracy, had replied that such a man Miss Dun- 
stable would never find in this world. All this had passed 
in that half comic vein of banter which Miss Dunstable so 
commonly used Avhen conversing Avith such friends as Mrs. 
Harold Smith ; but she had spoken Avords of the same im- 
port more than once to Mrs. Gresham ; and Mrs. Gresham, 
putting tAVO and two together as Avomen do, had made four 
of the little sum ; and, as the final result of the calculation, 
determined that Miss Dunstable Avould marry Dr. Thorne 
if Dr. Thorne Avould ask her. 

And then Mrs. Gresham began to bethink herself of tAvo 
other questions. Would it be Avell that her uncle should 
marry Miss Dunstable ? and, if so, Avould it be possible to 


310 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


induce him to make such a proposition ? After the con- 
sideration of many pros and cons, and the balancing of 
very various arguments, Mrs. Gresham thought that the 
arrangement, on the whole, might not be a bad one. For 
Miss Dunstable she herself had a sincere affection, which 
was shared by her husband. She had often grieved at the 
sacrifices Miss Dunstable made to the world, thinking, that 
her friend was falling into vanity, indifference, and an ill 
mode of life ; but such a marriage as this would probably 
cure all that. And then as to Dr. Thorne himself, to whose 
benefit were of course -applied Mrs. Gresham’s most earnest 
thoughts in this matter, she could not but think that he 
would be happier married than he was single. In point 
of temper, no woman could stand higher than Miss Dun- 
stable; no one had ever heard of her being in an ill humor; 
and then, though Mrs. Gresham was gifted with a mind 
which was far removed from being mercenary, it was im- 
possible not to feel that some benefit must accrue from the 
bride’s wealth. Mary Thorne, the present Mrs. Frank 
Gresham, had herself been a great heiress. Circumstances 
had weighted her hand with enormous possessions, and 
hitherto she had not realized the truth of that lesson which 
would teach us to believe that happiness and riches are in- 
compatible. Therefore she resolved that it might be well 
if the doctor and Miss Dunstable were brought together. 

But could the doctor be induced to make such an ofier? 
Mrs. Gresham acknowledged a terrible difficulty in look- 
ing at the matter from that point of view. Her uncle was 
fond of Miss Dunstable, but she was sure that an idea of 
such a marriage had never entered his head ; that it would 
be very difficult — almost impossible — to create such an 
idea; and that, if the idea were there, the doctor could 
hardly be instigated to make the proposition. Looking at 
the matter as a whole, she feared that the match was not 
practicable. 

On the day of Miss Dunstable’s party, Mrs. Gresham 
and her uncle dined together alone in Portman Square. 
Mr. Gresham was not yet in Parliament, but an almost 
immediate vacancy was expected in his division of the 
county, and it was known that no one could stand against 
him with any chance of success. This threw him much 
among the politicians of his party — those giants, namely, 
whom it would be his business to support, and on this ac- 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


311 


count he was a good deal away from his own house at the 
present moment. 

“ Politics make a terrible demand on a man’s time,” he 
said to his wife, and then went down to dine at his club in 
Pall Mall with sundry other young philogeants. On men 
of that class politics do make a great demand — at the hour 
of dinner and thereabouts. 

“What do you think of Miss Dunstable?” said Mrs. 
Gresham to her uncle, as they sat together over their cof- 
fee. She added nothing to the question, but asked it in 
all its baldness. 

“Think about her!” said the doctor. “Well, Mary, 
what do you think about her ? I dare say we think the 
same.” 

“ But that’s not the question. What do you think about 
her ? Do you think she’s honest ?” 

“Honest? Oh yes, certainly — very honest, I should 
say.” 

“ And good-tempered ?” 

“ Uncommonly good-tempered.” 

“ And affectionate ?” 

“Well, yes — and affectionate. I should certainly say 
that she is affectionate.” 

“ I’m sure she’s clever.” 

“ Yes, I think she’s clever.” 

“And, and — and womanly in her feelings,” Mrs. Gresh- 
am felt that she could not quite say lady-like, though she 
would fain have done so had she dared. 

“ Oh, certainly,” said the doctor. “ But, Mary, why are 
you dissecting Miss Dunstable’s character wdth so much 
ingenuity ?” 

“Well, uncle, I will tell you why; because — ” and Mrs. 
Gresham, while she was speaking, got up from her chair, 
and going round the table to her uncle’s side, put her arm 
round his neck till her face was close to his, and then con- 
tinued speaking as she stood behind him out of his sight — 
“because — I think that Miss Dunstable is — is very fond 
of you, and that it would make her happy if you would — 
ask her to be your wife.” 

“Mary!” said the doctor, turning round with an en- 
deavor to look his niece in the face. 

“ I am quite in earnest, uncle — quite in earnest. From 
little things that she has said, and little things that I have 
seen, I do believe what I now tell you.” 


312 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ And you want me to — ” 

“ Dear uncle — my own one darling uncle, I Avant you 
only to do that which Avill make you — make you happy. 
What is Miss Dunstable to me compared to you ?” And 
then she stooped down and kissed him. 

The doctor Avas apparently too much astounded by the 
intimation given him to make any farther immediate reply. 
His niece, seeing this, left him that she mi"ht go and dress, 
and when they met again in the draAving-room Frank 
Gresham Avas Avith them. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

MISS DUNSTABLE AT HOME. 

Miss Dunstable did not look like a lovelorn maiden, as 
she stood in a small antechamber at the top of her draAV- 
ing-room stairs receiving her guests. • Her house Avas one 
of those abnormal mansions which are to be seen here and 
there in London, built in compliance rather Avith the rules 
of rural architecture than with those Avhich usually govern 
the erection of city streets and tOAvn terraces. It stood 
back from its brethren, and alone, so that its OAvner could 
Avalk round it. It Avas approached by a short carriage- 
Avay ; the chief door Avas in the back of the building ; and 
the front of the house looked on to one of the parks. ’ Miss 
Dunstable, in procuring it, had had her usual luck. It had 
been built by an eccentric millionnaire at an enormous 
cost; and the eccentric millionnaire, after living in it for 
tAvelve months, had declared that it did not possess a sin- 
gle comfort, and that it Avas deficient in most of those de- 
tails Avhich, in point of house accommodation, are neces- 
sary to the A^ery existence of man. Consequently, the man- 
sion Avas sold, and Miss Dunstable was the purchaser. 
Cranbourn House it had been named, and its present OAvner 
had made no change in this respect ; but the Avorld at large 
very generally called it Ointment Hall, and Miss Dunstable 
herself as frequently used that name for it as any other. 
It Avas impossible to quiz Miss Dunstable Avitli any success, 
because she always joined in the joke herself. 

Xot a word farther had passed betAveen Mrs. Gresham 
and Dr. Thorne on the subject of their last conversation ; 
but the doctor, as he entered the lady’s portals among a 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


313 


tribe of servants and in a glare of light, and saw the crowd 
before him and the crowd behind him, felt that it was quite 
impossible that he should ever be at home there. It might 
be all right that a Miss Dunstable should live in this way, 
but it could not be right that the wife of Dr. Thorne should 
so live. But all this Avas a matter of the merest specula- 
tion, for he was well aAvare — as he said to himself a dozen 
times — that his niece had blundered strangely in her read- 
ing of Miss Dunstable’s character. 

When the Gresham party entered the anteroom into 
Avhich the staircase opened, they found Miss Dunstable 
standing there surrounded by a feAV of her most intimate 
allies. Mrs. Harold Smith was sitting quite close to her ; 
Dr. Easyman Avas reclining on a sofa against the wall, and 
the lady who habitually lived Avith Miss Dunstable Avas by 
his side. One or tAvo others Avere there also, so that a lit- 
tle running conA^ersation Avas kept up, in order to relieve 
Miss Dunstable of the tedium Avhich might otherAvise be en- 
gendered by the Avork she had in hand. As Mrs. Gresham, 
leaning on her husband’s arm, entered the room, she saw 
the back of Mrs. Proudie, as that lady made her Avay 
through the opposite door leaning on the arm of the bishop. 

Mrs. Harold Smith had apparently recovered from the 
annoyance Avhich she must no doubt have felt Avhen Miss 
Dunstable so utterly rejected her suit on behalf of her 
brother. If any feeling had existed, even for a day, calcu- 
lated to put a stop to the intimacy betAveen the tAvo ladies, 
that feeling had altogether died aAvay, for Mrs. Harold 
Smith Avas conversing Avith her friend quite in the old Avay. 
She made some remark on each of the guests as they pass- 
ed by, and apparently did so in a manner satisfactory to 
the OAAmcr of the house, for Miss Dunstable ansAvered Avith 
her kindest smiles, and in that genial, happy tone of voice 
Avhich gave its peculiar character to her good-humor : 

“ She is quite convinced that you arc a mere plagiarist 
in Avhat you are doing,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, speaking 
of Mrs. Proudie. 

“ And so I am. I don’t suppose there can be any thing 
Amry original nowadays about an evening party.” 

“ But she thinks you are copying her.” 

“ And why not ? I copy every body that I see more or 
less. You did not at first begin to Avear big petticoats out 
of vour OAvn head. If Mrs. Proudie has any such pride as 

O 


314 


TKAMLEY TAKSONAGE. 


that, pray don’t rob her of it. Here’s the doctor and the 
Gresliams. Mary, my darling, how are you ?” and, in spite 
of all her grandeur of apparel, Miss Dunstable took hold 
of Mrs. Gresham and kissed her — to the disgust of the 
dozen and a half of the distinguished fashionable world 
who were passing up the stairs behind. 

Tlie doctor was somewhat reiwessed in his mode of ad- 
dress by the communication which had so lately been made 
to him. Miss Dunstable was now standing on the very 
to}) of the pinnacle of wealth, and seemed to him to be not 
only so much above his reach, but also so far removed from 
his track in life that he could not in any way put himself 
on a level with her. He could neither aspire so high nor 
descend so low ; and thinking of this, he spoke to Miss 
Dunstable as though there were some great distance be- 
tween them — as though there had been no hours of inti- 
mate friendship down at Greshamsbury. There had been 
such hours, during which Miss Dunstable and Dr. Thorne 
had lived as though they belonged to the same world ; and 
this, at any rate, may be said of Miss Dunstable, that she 
had no idea of forgetting them. 

Dr. Thorne merely gave her his hand, and then prepared 
to pass on. 

“ Don’t go, doctor,” she said ; “ for heaven’s sake, don’t 
go yet. I don’t know when I may catch you if you get in 
there. I sha’n’t be able to follow you for the next two 
hours. Lady Meredith, I am so much obliged to you for 
coming — your mother will be here, I hope. Oh, I am so 
glad! From her, you know, that is quite a favor. You, 
Sir George, arc half a sinner yourself, so I don’t think so 
much about it.” 

“ Oh, quite so,” said Sir George ; “ perhaps rather the 
largest half.” 

“The men divide the w^orld into -gods and giants,” said 
Miss Dunstable. “We women have our divisions also. 
We are saints or sinners according to our party. The 
worst of it is, that we rat almost as often as you do.” 
Whereupon Sir George laughed and passed on. 

“ I know, doctor, you don’^t like this kind of thing,” she 
continued, “ but there is no reason why you should indulge 
yourself altogether in your OAvn way more than another — 
is there, Frank?” 

“I am not so sure but lie does like it,” said Mr. Gresh- 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


315 


am. “There are some of your reputed friends whom lie 
owns that he is anxious to see.” 

“ Are there ? Then there is some hope of his ratting 
too. But he’ll never make a good stanch sinner ; will he, 
Mary? You’re too old to learn new tricks — eh, doctor?” 

“ I am afraid I am,” said the doctor, with a faint laugh. 

“Does Dr. Thorne rank himself among the army of 
saints ?” asked Mrs. Harold Smith. 

“ Decidedly,” said Miss Dunstable. “ But you must al- 
ways remember that there are saints of dilferent orders ; 
are there not, Mary ? and nobody supposes that the Fran- 
ciscans and the Dominicans agree very well together. Dr. 
Thorne does not belong to the school of St. Proudie, of 
Barchester; he would prefer the priestess whom I see 
coming round the corner of the staircase, with a very fa- 
mous young novice at her elbow.” 

“ From all that I can hear, you will have to reckon Miss 
Grantly among the sinners,” said Mrs. Harold Smith — see- 
ing that Lady Lufton, with her young friend, was approach- 
ing — “ unless, indeed, you can make a saint of Lady Har- 
tletop.” 

And then Lady Lufton entered the room, and Miss Dun- 
stable came forward to meet her with more quiet respect 
in her manner than she had as yet shown to many of her 
guests. “I am much obliged to you for coming. Lady 
Lufton,” she said, “and the more so for bringing Miss 
Grantly with you.” 

Lady Lufton uttered some pretty little speech, during 
which Dr. Thorne came up and shook hands with her, as 
did also Frank Gresham and his wife. There was a coun- 
ty acquaintance between the Framley people and the Gresh- 
amsbury people, and therefore there was a little general 
conversation before Lady Lufton passed out of the small 
room into what Mrs. Proudie would have called the noble 
suite of apartments. “ Papa will be here,” said Miss Grant- 
ly; “at least so I understand. I have not seen liim yet 
myself.” 

“ Oh yes, he has promised me,” said Miss Dunstable, 
“ and the archdeacon, I know, will keep his word. I should 
by no means have the proper ecclesiastical balance with- 
out him.” 

“ Papa always does keep his word,” said Miss Grantly, 
in a tone that was almost severe. She had not at all im- 


31G 


FRAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


clerstood 2 :)Oor Miss Dunstable’s little joke, or, at any rate, 
slie was too dignified to respond to it. 

“ I understand that old Sir John is to accept the Chiltern 
Hundreds at once,” said Lady Lufton, in a half whisper to 
Frank Gresham. Lady Lufton had always taken a keen 
interest in the politics of East Barsetshire, and was now 
desirous of expressing her satisfaction that a Gresham 
should again sit for the county. The Greshams had been 
old county members in Barsetshire time out of mind. 

“ Oh yes, I believe so,” said Frank, blushing. He was 
still young enough to feel almost ashamed of j^utting him- 
self forward for such high honors. 

“There will be no contest, of course,” said Lady Luf- 
ton, confidentially. “ There seldom is in East Barsetshire, 
I am happy to say. But if there were, every tenant at 
Framley would vote on the right side, 1 can assure you 
of that. Lord Lufton was saying so to me only this 
morning.” 

Frank Gresham made a pretty little speech in reply, 
such as young 'sucking politicians are ex 2 :>ectcd to make ; 
and this, with sundry other small courteous murmurings, 
detained the Lufton j^arty for a minute or two in the ante- 
chamber. In the mean time the world Avas pressing on 
and passing through to the four or five large recej)tion- 
rooms — the noble suite, Avhich Avas already jAiercing poor 
Mrs. Proudie’s heart with envy to the A^ery core. “These 
are the sort of rooms,” she said to herself unconsciously, 
“ AA^hich ought to be provided by the country for the use 
of its bishops.” 

“ But the peojAle are not brought enough together,” she 
said to her lord. 

“Ho, no, I don’t think they are,” said the bishop. 

“And that is so essential for a conversazione,” continued 
Mrs. Proudie. “Hoav in Gloucester Place — ” But Ave 
Avill not record all her adverse criticisms, as Lady Lufton 
is AA^aiting for us in the anteroom. 

And noAV another arrival of moment had taken place — 
an arrival indeed of A’-ery great moment. To tell the truth. 
Miss Dunstable’s heart had been set upon having tAVO spe- 
cial persons ; and though no stone had been left unturned 
— no stone AAdiich could be turned Avith discretion — she 
was still left in doubt as to both these tAvo Avondrous po- 
tentates. At the very moments of AAdiich Ave arc noAV 


FRAMLEY FAKSONAGE. 


017 


Speaking, light and airy as she appeared to be — for it was 
her character to be light and airy — her mind was torn with 
doubts. If the wished-for two would come, her evening 
would be thoroughly successful ; but if not, all her trouble 
Avould have been thrown away, and the thing would have 
been a failure ; and there were circumstances connected 
Avith the present assembly Avhich made Miss Dunstable 
A'ery anxious that she should not fail. That the tAVO 
great ones of the earth Avere Tom ToAvers of the Jupi- 
ter^ and the Duke of Omnium, need hardly be expressed 
ill Avords. 

And noAA", at this A^ery moment, as Lady Lufton Avas 
making her civil speeches to young Gresham, apparently 
ill no hurry to move on, and while Miss Dunstable Avas 
endeavoring to Avhisper something into the doctor’s ear 
Avhich Avould make him feel himself at home in this ncAV 
Avorld, a sound Avas heard Avhich made that lady knoAV that 
half her Avish had at any rate been granted to her. A 
sound Avas heard, but only by her oAvn and one other at- 
tentive pair of ears. Mrs. Harold Smith had also caught 
the name, and kneAV that the duke was approaching. 

There Avas great glory and triumph in this; but why 
had his grace come at so unchancy a moment? Miss Dun- 
stable had been fully aAvare of the impropriety of bringing 
Lady Lufton and the Duke of Omnium into the same house 
at the same time ; but Avheii she had asked Lady Lufton, 
she had been led to believe that there Avas no hope of ob- 
taining the duke ; and then, when that hope had daAvned 
upon her, she had comforted herself Avith the reflection 
that the tAvo suns, thpugh they might for some fcAV min- 
utes be in the same hemispheve, could hardly be expected 
to clash, or come across each other’s orbits, bier rooms 
Averc large, and Avould be croAvded ; the duke Avould prob- 
ably do little more than walk through them once, and Lady 
Lufton Avould certainly be surrounded by persons of her 
OAvn class. Thus Miss Dunstable had comforted herself. 
But noAv all things were going Avrong, and Lady Lufton 
Avould And herself in close contiguity to the nearest repre- 
sentative of Satanic agency, Avhich, according to her ideas, 
Avas alloAved to Avalk this nether English world of ours. 
Would she scrcam,.or indignantly retreat out of the house? 
or would she proudly raise her head, and Avith outstretch- 
ed hand and audible voice boldly defy the devil and all his 


318 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


works ? In thinking of these things as the duke approaclf- 
ed, Miss Dunstable almost lost her presence of mind. 

But Mrs. Harold Smith did not lose hers. “ So here at 
last is the duke,” she said, in a tone intended to catch the 
express attention of Lady Lufton. 

Mrs, Smith had calculated that there might still be time 
for her ladyship to pass on and avoid the interview. But 
Lady Lufton, if she heard the words, did not completely 
understand them. At any rate, they did not convey to 
her mind at the moment the meaning they were intended 
to convey. She paused to whisper a last little speech to 
Frank Gresham, and then, looking round, found that the 
gentleman who was pressing against her dress was — the 
Duke of Omnium ! 

On this great occasion, when the misfortune could no 
longer be avoided. Miss Dunstable was by no means be- 
neath herself or her character. She deplored the calamity, 
but she now saw that it was only left to her to make the 
best of it. The duke had honored her by coming to her 
house, and she was bound to welcome him, though in doing 
so she should bring Lady Lufton to her last gasp. 

“Duke,” she said, “I am greatly honored by this kind- 
ness on the part of your grace. I hardly expected that 
you would be so good to me.” 

“ The goodness is all on the other side,” said the duke, 
bowing over her hand. 

And then, in the usual course of things, this would have 
been all. The duke would have walked on and shown 
himself, would have said a word or two to Lady Hartle- 
top, to the bishop, to Mr. Gresham, and such like, and 
would then have left’ the rooms by another way, and qui- 
etly escaped. This was the duty expected from him, and 
this he would have done, and the value of the party would 
have been increased thirty per cent, by such doing ; but 
now, as it was, the newsmongers of the West End were 
likely to get much more out of him. 

Circumstances had so turned out that he had absolutely 
been pressed close against Lady Lufton, and she, when she 
heard the voice, and was made positively acquainted with 
the fact of the great man’s presence by Miss Dunstable’s 
words, turned round quickly, but still with much feminine 
dignity, removing her dress from the contact. In doing 
this she was brought absolutely face to face with the duke, 





LADY LUFTON AND TIIIC DUKE OF OMNIUM 







FliAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


321 


SO tliat each could not but look full at the other. “I beg 
your pardon,” said the duke. They were the only words 
that had ever passed between them, nor have they spoken 
to each other since ; but, simple as they were, accompanied 
by the little by-play of the speakers, they gave rise to a 
considerable amount of ferment in the fashionable world. 
Lady Lufton, as she retreated back on to Dr. Easyman, 
courtesied low ; she courtesied low and slowly, and with a 
haughty arrangement of her drapery that was all her own ; 
but the courtesy, though it was eloquent, did not say half 
so much — did not reprobate the habitual iniquities of the 
duke with a voice nearly as potent as that which was ex- 
pressed in the gradual fall of her eye and the gradual press- 
ure of her lips. .When she commenced her courtesy she 
was looking full in her foe’s face. By the time that she 
had completed it her eyes were turned upon the ground, 
but there was an ineffable amount of scorn expressed in 
the lines of her mouth. She spoke no word, and retreated, 
as modest virtue and feminine weakness must ever retreat, 
before barefaced vice and virile power ; but nevertheless 
she was held by all the world to have had the best of the 
encounter. The duke, as he begged her pardon, Avore in 
his countenance that expression of modified sorroAV Avhich 
is common to any gentleman Avho is supposed by himself 
to have incommoded a lady. But over and above this — or 
rather under it — there Avas a slight smile of derision, as 
though it Avere impossible for him to look upon the bear- 
ing of Lady Lufton Avithout some amount of ridicule. All 
this Avas legible to eyes so keen as those of Miss Dunstable 
and Mrs. Harold Smith, and the duke Avas knoAvn to be a 
master of this silent iinvard sarcasm ; but even by them — 
by Miss Dunstable and Mrs. Harold Smith — it Avas admit- 
ted that Lady Lufton had conquered. When her ladyship 
again looked up, the duke had passed on; she then re- 
sumed the care of Miss Grantly’s hand, and folloAved in 
among the company. 

“ That is Avhat I call unfortunate,” said Miss Dunstable, 
as soon as both belligerents had departed from the field 
of battle. “The fates sometimes Avill be against one.” 

“But they have not been at all against you here,” said 
Mrs. Harokl Smith. “If you could arrive at her ladyship’s 
private thoughts to-morroAV morning, you Avould find her 
to be quite happy in having met the duke. It Avill be 
0^2 


322 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


years before she has done boasting of her triumph, and it 
will be talked of by the young ladies of Framley for the 
next three generations.” 

The Gresham party, including Dr. Thorne, had remained 
in the ante-chamber during the battle. The whole combat 
did not occupy above two minutes, and the three of them 
were hemmed off from escape by Lady Lufton’s retreat into 
Dr. Easyman’s lap ; but now they, too, essayed to pass on. 

“ What, you will desert me,” said Miss Dunstable. 
“Very well; but I shall find you out by-and-by. Frank, 
there is to be some dancing in one of the rooms — just to 
distinguish the affair from Mrs. Proudie’s conversazione. 
It would be stupid, you know, if all conversaziones were 
alike ; wouldn’t it ? So I hope you will go and dance.” 

“ There will, I presume, be another variation at feeding- 
time,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. 

“ Oh yes, certainly ; I am the most vulgar of all wu-etches 
in that respect. I do love to set people eating and drink- 
ing. Mr. Supplehouse, I am delighted to see you ; but do 
tell me — ” and then she whispered with great energy into 
the ear of Mr. Supplehouse, and Mr. Supplehouse again 
whispered into her ear. ‘‘You think he w’ill, then?” said 
Miss Dunstable. 

Mr. Supifiehouse assented ; he did think so, but he had 
no warrant for stating the circumstance as a fact. And 
then he passed on, hardly looking at Mrs. Harold Smith as 
he passed. 

“ Wliat a hang-dog countenance he has,” said that lady. 

“Ah! you’re prejudiced, my dear, and no wonder; as 
for myself, I always liked Supplehouse. He means mis- 
chief ; but then mischief is his trade, and he does not con- 
ceal it. If I were a politician, I should as soon think of 
being angry with Mr. Supplehouse for turning against mo 
as I am now with a pin for pricking me. It’s my own 
awkwardness, and I ought to have known how to use the 
pin more craftily.” 

“But you must detest a man who professes to stand by 
his party, and then does his best to ruin it.” 

“ So many have done that, my dear, and with much more 
success than Mr. Supplehouse ! All is fair in love and war 
— why not add politics to the list ? If we could only agree 
to do that, it would save us from such a deal of heartburn- 
ing, and would make none of us a bit the worse.” 


FKAMLEY TAESOXAGE. 


323 


3Iiss Dunstable’s rooms, large as they were — “ a noble 
suite of rooms, certainly, though perhaps a little too — too 
— too scattered, we will say, eh ! bishop ?” — were now 
nearly full, and would have been inconveniently crowded 
were it not that many who came only remained for half an 
hour or so. Space, however, had been kept for the dancers 
— much to Mrs.Proudie’s consternation. Kot that she dis- 
approved of dancing in London as a rule, but she was in- 
dignant that the laws of a conversazione, as re-established 
by herself in the fashionable world, should be so violently 
infringed. 

“Conversaziones will come to mean nothing,” she said 
to the bishop, putting great stress on the latter word, “noth- 
ing at all, if they are to be treated in this way.” 

“ Xo, they won’t ; nothing in the least,” said the bishop. 

“Dancing may be very well in its place,” said Mrs. 
Proudie. 

“ I have never objected to it myself— that is, for the 
laity,” said the bishop. 

“ But when people profess to assemble for higher ob- 
jects,” said Mrs. Proudie, “ they ought to act up to their 
professions.” 

“ Otherwise they are no better than hypocrites,” said the 
bishop. 

“A spade should be called a spade,” said Mrs. Proudie. 

“ Decidedly,” said the bishop, assenting. 

“ And when I undertook the trouble and expense of in- 
troducing conversaziones,” continued Mrs. Proudie, with 
an evident feeling that she had been ill used, “ I had no 
idea of seeing the word so — so — so misinterpreted and 
then observing certain desirable acquaintances at the other 
side of the room, she went across, leartng the bishop to 
fend for himself. 

Lady Lufton, having achieved her success, passed on to 
the dancing, whither it was not probable that her enemy 
would follow her, and she had not been there very long be- 
fore she was joined by her son. Her heart at the present 
moment was not quite satisfied at the state of afiairs with 
refiwence to Griselda. She had gone so far as to tell her 
young^friend what were her own wishes ; she had declared 
her desire that Griselda should become her daughter-in- 
law ; but in answer to this Griselda herself had declared 
nothing. It was, to be sure, no more than natural that a 


324 


riJAMLEY PAllSONAGE. 


young lady so well brought up as Miss Grantly should 
show no signs of a passion till she was warranted in show- 
ing them by the proceedings of the gentleman ; but, not- 
Avithstanding this — fully aware as she Avas of the propriety 
of such reticence — ^Lady Lufton did think that to her Gn- 
selda might have spoken some Avord evincing that the alli- 
ance Avould be satisfactory to her. Griselda, however, had 
spoken no such AVord, nor had she uttered a syllable to 
show that she Avould accept Lord Lufton if he did offer. 
Then, again, she had uttered no syllable to show that she 
Avould not accept him; but, nevertheless, although she 
knew that the Avorld had been talking about her and Lord 
Dumbello, she stood up to dance Avith the future marquess 
on every possible occasion. All this did give annoyance to 
Lady Lufton, Avho began to bethink herself that if she could 
not quickly bring her little plan to a favorable issue, it 
might be Avell for her to Avash her hands of it. She Avas 
still anxious for the match on her son’s account. Griselda 
Avould, she did not doubt, make a good wife ; but Lady 
Lufton Avas not so sure as she once had been that she her- 
self Avould be able to keep up so strong a feeling for. her 
daughter-in-law as she had hitherto hoped to do. 

“ Ludovic, have you been here long?” she said, smiling 
as she always did smile Avhen her eyes fell upon her son’s 
face. 

“ This instant arrived ; and I hurried on after you, as 
Miss Dunstable told me that you Avere here. What a croAvd 
she has! Did you see Lord Brock?” 

“ I did not observe him.” 

“ Or Lord De Terrier? I saw them both in the centre 
room.” 

“ Lord De Terrier did me the honor of shaking hands 
Avith me as I passed through.” 

“ I never saw such a mixture of people. There is Mrs. 
Proudie going out of her mind because you are all going 
to dance.” 

‘‘ The Miss Proudies dance,” said Griselda Grantly. 

“But not at conversaziones. You don’t see the differ- 
ence. And I saAV Spermoil there, looking as pleased as 
Punch. lie had quite a circle of his own round him, and 
Avas chattering aAvay as though he Avere quite accustomed 
to the Avickedness of the Avorld.” 

“There certainly are people enough here Avhom one 


FllAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


325 


would not have wished to meet, had one thought of it,” 
said Lady Lufton, mindful of her late engagement. 

“ But it must be all right, for I walked up the stairs 
with the archdeacon. That is an absolute proof; is it not. 
Miss Grantly?” 

“I have no fears. When I am with your mother I 
know I must be safe.” 

“ I am not so sure of that,” said Lord Lufton, laughing. 
“ Mother, you hardly know the worst of it yet. Who is 
here, do you think?” 

“ I know whom you mean ; I have seen him,” said Lady 
Lufton, very quietly. 

“ We came across him just at the top of the stairs,” said 
Griselda, with more animation in her face than ever Lord 
Lufton had seen there before. 

“ What, the duke ?” 

“ Yes, the duke,” said Lady Lufton. “ I certainly should 
not have come had I expected to be brought in contact 
with that man. But it was an accident, and on such an 
occasion as this it could not be helped.” 

Lord Lufton at once perceived by the tone of his moth- 
er’s voice and by the shades of her countenance that she 
liad absolutely endured some personal encounter with the 
duke, and also that she was by no means so indignant at 
the occurrence as might have been expected. There she 
w^as, still in Miss Dunstable’s house, and expressing no an- 
ger as to Miss Dunstable’s conduct. Lord Lufton could 
hardly have been more surprised had he seen the duke 
handing his mother down to supper; he said, however, 
nothing farther on the subject. 

“ Are you going to dance, Ludovic ?” said Lady Lufton. 

“Well, I am not sure that I do not agree with Mrs. 
Proudie in thinking that dancing would contaminate a 
conversazione. What are your ideas. Miss Grantly ?” 

Griselda was never very good at a joke, and imagined 
that Lord Lufton wanted to escape the trouble of dancing 
with her. This angered her. For the only species of 
love-making, or flirtation, or sociability between herself 
as a young lady, and any other self as a young gentleman, 
which recommended itself to her taste, was to be found in 
the amusement of dancing. She was altogether at vari- 
ance with Mrs. Proudie on this matter, and gave Miss Dun- 
stable great credit for her innovation. In society Grisel- 


326 


FKAMLEY TAKSONAGE. 


da’s toes were more serviceable to her than her tongue, 
and she was to be won by a rapid twirl much more prob- 
ably than by a soft word. The offer of which she would 
approve would be conveyed by two all but breathless 
words during a spasmodic pause in a waltz ; and then, as 
she lifted up her arm to receive the accustomed support 
at her back, she might just find power enough to say, 
“ You — must ask — papa.” After that she would not care 
to have the affair mentioned till every thing was properly 
settled. 

“I have not thought about it,” said Griselda, turning 
her face away from Lord Lufton. 

It must not, however, be supposed that Miss Grantly had 
not thought about Lord Lufton, or that she had not con- 
sidered how great might be the advantage of having Lady 
Lufton on her side if she made up her mind that she did 
wish to become Lord Lufton’s wife. She knew well that 
now was her time for a triumph — now, in this very first 
season of her acknowledged beauty ; and she knew also 
that young, good-looking bachelor lords do not grow on 
hedges like blackberries. Had Lord Lufton offered to her, 
she would have accepted him at once without any remorse 
as to the greater glories which might appertain to a future 
marchioness of Hartletop. In that direction she was not 
Avithout sufficient Avisdom. But then Lord Lufton had not 
offered to her, nor given any signs that he intended to do 
so ; and, to give Griselda Grantly her due, she Avas not a 
• girl to make a first overture. Neither had Lord Dumbello 
offered ; but he had given signs — dumb signs, such as 
birds give to each other, quite as intelligible as verbal 
signs to a girl who preferred the use of her toes to that 
of her tongue. 

“ I have not thought about it,” said Griselda, xei'y cold- 
ly, and at that moment a gentleman stood before her and 
asked her hand for the next dance. It Avas Lord Dumbel- 
lo ; and Griselda, making no reply except by a slight bow, 
got up and put her hand Avithin her partner’s arm. 

“Shall I find you here. Lady Lufton, Avhen Ave have 
done?” she said; and then started among the dancers. 
When the work before one is dancing, the proper thing 
for a gentleman to do is, at any rate, to ask a lady ; this 
proper thing Lord Lufton had omitted, and now the prize 
Avas taken aAvay from under his very nose. 


FKAMLEY TAKSONAGE. 


327 


There was clearly an air of triumph about Lord Dum- 
bello as he walked away with the beauty. The world had 
been saying that Lord Lufton was to marry her, and the 
world had also been saying that Lord Dumbello admired 
her. Now this had angered Lord Dumbello, and made 
him feel as though he walked about, a mark of scorn, as a 
disappointed suitor. Had it not been for Lord Lufton, per- 
haps he would not have cared so much for Griselda Grant- 
ly ; but circumstances had so turned out that he did care 
for her, and felt it to be incumbent upon him as the heir 
to a marquisate to obtain what he wanted, let who would 
have a hankering after the same article. It is in this way 
that pictures are so well sold at auctions ; and Lord Dum- 
bello regarded Miss Grantly as being now subject to the 
auctioneer’s hammer, and conceived that Lord Lufton was 
bidding against him. There was, therefore, an air of tri- 
umph about him as he put his arm round Griselda’s waist 
and whirled her up and down the room in obedience to 
the music. 

Lady Lufton and her son were left together looking at 
each other. Of course he had intended to ask Griselda to 
dance, but it can not be said that he very much regretted 
his disappointment. Of course also Lady Lufton had ex- 
pected that her son and Griselda would stand up together, 
and she was a little inclined to bo angry with \\qv j^otegh, 

“ I think she might have waited a minute,” said Lady 
Lufton. 

“ But why, mother? There are certain things for which 
no one ever waits : to give a friend, for instance, the first 
passage through a gate out hunting, and such like. Miss 
Grantly was quite right to take the first that offered.” 

Lady Lufton had determined to learn what was to bo the 
end of this scheme of hers. She could not have Griselda 
always with her, and if any thing were to be arranged it 
must be arranged now, while both of them were in Lon- 
don. At the close of the season Griselda would return to 
Plumstead, and Lord Lufton would go — nobody as yet 
knew where. It would be useless to look forward to far- 
ther opportunities. If they did not contrive to love each 
other now, they would never do so. Lady Lufton was be- 
ginning to fear that her plan would not work; but she 
made up her mind that she would learn the truth then and 
there — at least as hir as her son was concerned. 


328 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Oh yes, quite so ; if it is equal to her witli which slie 
dances,” said Lady Lufton. 

“ Quite equal, I should think — unless it be that Duni- 
bello is longer-winded than I am.” 

“ I am sorry to hear you speak of her in that way, Lu- 
dovic.” 

‘^Why sorry, mother?” 

“Because I had hoped — that you and she would have 
liked each other.” This she said in a serious tone of voice, 
tender and sad, looking up into his face with a plaintive 
gaze, as though she knew that she were asking of him some 
great favor. 

“ Yes, mother, I have known that you have wished that.” 

“You have known it, Ludovic!” 

“ Oh dear, yes ; you are not at all sharp at keeping your 
secrets from me. And, mother, at one time, for a day or 
so, I thought that I could oblige you. You have been so 
good to me that I would almost do any thing for you.” 

“ Oh no, no, no,” she said, deprecating his praise, and 
the sacrifice which he seemed to offer of his own hopes and 
aspirations. “I would not for worlds have you do so for 
my sake. No mother ever had a better son, and my only 
ambition is for your liappiness.” 

“ But, mother, she would not make me happy. I was 
mad enough for a moment to think that she could do so — 
for a moment I did think so. There was one occasion on 
which I would have asked her to take me, but — ” 

“ But what, Ludovic ?” 

“Never mind; it passed away; and now I shall never 
ask her. Indeed, I do not think she would have me. She 
is ambitious, and flying at higher game than I am. And I 
must say this for her, that she knows well what she is do- 
ing, and plays her cards as though she had been born with 
them in her hand.” 

“You will never ask her?” 

“No, mother ; had I done so, it would have been for love 
of you — only for love of you.” 

“ I would not for worlds that you should do that.” 

“Let her have Dumbello; she will make an excellent 
wife for him — just the wife that he will want. And you — 
you Avill have been so good to her in assisting her to such 
a matter.” 

“ But, Ludovic, T am so anxious to see you settled.” 


TRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


329 


‘‘ All in good time, mother.” 

“Ah! hut the good time is passing away. Years rim 
so very quickly. I hope you think about marrying, Lu- 
dovic.” 

“ But, mother, what if I brought you a wife that you did 
not approve ?” 

“ I will approve of any one that you love ; that is — ” 

“ That is, if you love her also ; eh ! mother?” 

“ But I rely with such confidence on your taste. I know 
that you can like no one that is not lady-like and good.” 

“ Lady-like and good ! Will that suffice ?” said he, think- 
ing of Lucy Robarts. 

“ Yes, it will suffice, if you love her. I don’t want you 
to care for money. Griselda will have a fortune that would 
have been convenient ; but I do not wish you to care for 
that.” And thus, as they stood together in Miss Dun- 
stable’s crowded room, the mother and son settled between 
themselves that the Lufton-Grantly alliance treaty was not 
to be ratified. “ I suppose I must let Mrs. Grantly know,” 
said Lady Lufton to herself, as Griselda returned to her 
side. There had not been above a dozen words spoken 
between Lord Dumbello and his partner, but that young 
lady also had now fully made up her mind that the treaty 
above mentioned should never be brought into operation. 

We must go back to our hostess, whom we should not 
have left for so long a time, seeing that this chai^ter is writ- 
ten to show how well she could conduct herself in great 
emergencies. She had declared that after a while she would 
be able to leave her position near the entrance-door, and 
find out her own peculiar friends among the crowd, but the 
opportunity for doing so did not come till very late in the 
evening. There was a continuation of arrivals ; she was 
wearied to death with making little speeches, and had more 
than once declared that she must depute Mrs. Harold Smith 
to take her place. 

That lady stuck to her through all her labors with admi- 
rable constancy, and made the work bearable. Without 
some such constancy on a friend’s part, it would have been 
unbearable. And it must be acknowledged that this was 
much to the credit of Mrs. Harold Smith. Her own hopes 
with reference to the great heiress had all been shattered, 
and her answer had been given to her in very plain lan- 
guage. But, nevertheless, she was true to her friendship, 


330 


FllAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


and was almost as willing to endure fatigue on the occa- 
sion as though she had a sister-in-law’s right in the house. 

At about one o’clock her brother came. He had not 
yet seen Miss Dunstable since the offer had been made, 
and had now, with difficulty, been persuaded by his sister 
to show himself. 

‘‘What can be the use?” said he. “The game is up 
with me now;” meaning, poor, ruined ne’er-do-well, not 
only that that game with Miss Dunstable was up, but that 
the great game of his whole life was being brought to an 
uimomfortable termination. 

/“Nonsense,” said his sister. “Do you mean to despair 
because a man like the Duke of Omnium wants his money? 

/ What has been good security for him will be good security 
for another;” and then Mrs. Harold Smith made herself 
more agreeable than ever to Miss Dunstable. 

When Miss Dunstable was nearly worn out, but was 
still endeavoring to buoy herself up by a hope of the stilk 
expected great arrival — for she knew that the hero would 
show himself only at a very late hour if it were to be her 
good fortune that he showed himself at all — Mr. Sowerby 
walked up the stairs. He had schooled himself to go 
through this ordeal with all the cool effrontery which was 
at his command ; but it was clearly to be seen that all his 
effrontery did not stand him in sufficient stead, and that 
the interview would have been embarrassing had it not 
been for the genuine good-humor of the lady. 

“ Here is my brother,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, showing 
by the tremulousness of the whisper that she looked for- 
'svard to the meeting with some amount of apprehension. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Sowerby ?” said Miss Dunstable, 
walking almost into the doorway to welcome him. “ Bet- 
ter late than never.” 

“ I have only just got away from the House,” said he, 
as he gave her his hand. 

“ Oh, I know well that you are sans reproche among 
senators, as Mr. Harold Smith is sans pexir ; eh! my dear?” 

“I must confess that you have contrived to be uncom- 
monly severe upon them both,” said Mrs. Harold, laugh- 
ing, “ and, as regards poor Harold, most undeservedly so; 
Nathaniel is here, and may defend himself.” 

“And no one is better able to do so on all occasions. 
But, my dear Mr. Sowerby, I am dying of despair. Do 
you think he’ll come ?” 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


331 


“He? who?” 

“You stupid man — as if there were more than one he! 
There were two, but the other has been.” 

“ Upon my word, I don’t understand,” said Mr. Sower- 
by, now again at his ease. “ But can I do any thing ? 
shall I go and fetch any one ? Oh, Tom Towers ! I fear 
I can’t help you. But here he is at the foot of the stairs !” 
And then Mr. Sowerby stood back with his sister to make 
way for the great representative man of the age. 

“Angels and ministers of grace, assist me!” said Miss 
Dunstable. “ How on earth am I to behave myself? Mr. 
SoAverby, do you think that I ought to kneel down ? My 
dear, Avill he have a reporter at his back in the royal liv- 
ery ?” And then Miss Dunstable advanced two or three 
steps — not into the doorway, as she had done for Mr. Soav- 
erby — put out her hand, and smiled her SAveetest on Mr. 
To Avers of the Jupiter. 

“ Mr. ToAvers,” she said, “ I am delighted to have this 
opportunity of seeing you in my OAAm house.” 

“ Miss Dunstable, I am immensely honored by the privi- 
lege of being here,” said he. 

“ The honor done is all conferred on me,” and she bowed 
and courtesied with very stately grace. Each thoroughly 
understood the badinage of the other ; and then, in a feAV 
moments, they Avere engaged in very easy conversation. 

“ By-the-by, SoAverby, Avhat do you think of this threat- 
ened dissolution ?” said Tom ToAvers. 

“We are all in the hands of Providence,” said Mr. Soav- 
erby, striving to take the matter Avithout any outAvard shoAV 
of emotion. But the question was one of terrible import 
to him, and up to this time he had heard of no such threat ; 
nor had Mrs. Harold Smith, nor Miss Dunstable, nor had 
a hundred others who noAV either listened to the vaticina- 
tions of Mr. ToAvers, or to the immediate report made of 
them. But it is given to some men to originate such 
tidings, and the performance of the prophecy is often 
brought about by the authority of the prophet. On the 
folloAving morning the rumor that there Avould be a disso- 
lution was current in all high circles. “ They have no con- 
science in such matters — no conscience Avhatever,” said a 
small god, speaking of the giants — a small god, Avhose con- 
stituency Avas expensive. 

Mr. ToAvers stood there chatting for about tAventy min- 


332 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


utes, and then took Ins departure without making his way 
into the room. He had answered the purpose for which 
he had been invited, and left Miss Dunstable in a happy 
frame of mind. 

“ I am very glad that he came,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, 
with an air of triumph. 

“Yes, I am glad,” said Miss Dunstable, “though I am 
thoroughly ashamed that I should be so. After all, what 
good has he done to me or to any one ?” And, having ut- 
tered this moral reflection, she made her way into the 
rooms, and soon discovered Dr. Thorne standing by him- 
self against the wall. 

“Well, doctor,” she said, “ where are Mary and Frank? 
You do not look at all comfortable, standing here by your- 
self.” 

“ I am quite as comfortable as I expected, thank yon,” 
said he. “They are in the room somewhere, and, as I be- 
lieve, equally happy.” 

“ That’s spiteful in you, doctor, to speak in that way. 
What would you say if you were called on to endure all 
that I have gone through this evening?” 

“There is no accounting for tastes, but I presume you 
like it.” 

“ I am not so sure of that. Give me your arm, and let 
me get some supper. One always likes the idea of having 
done hard work, and one always likes to have been suc- 
cessful.” 

“We all know that virtue is its own reward,” said the 
doctor. 

“ Well, that is something hard upon me,” said Miss Dun- 
stable, as she sat down to table. “And you really think 
that no good of any sort can come from my giving such a 
party as this ?” 

“ Oh yes ; some people, no doubt, have been amused.” 

“ It is all vanity in your estimation,” said Miss Dunstable 
— “vanity and vexation of spirit. Well, there is a good 
deal of the latter, certainly. Sherry, if you please. I would 
give any thing for a glass of beer, but that is out of the 
question. Vanity and vexation of spirit ! And yet I meant 
to do good.” 

“ Pray, do not suppose that I am condemning you, Miss 
Dunstable.” 

“Ah! but I do suppose it. Not only you, but another 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


333 


also, whose judgment I care for perhaps more than yours; 
and that, let me tell you, is saying a great deal. You do 
condemn me. Dr. Thorne, and I also condemn myself. It 
is not that I have done wrong, but the game is not worth 
the candle.” 

“ Ah ! that’s the question.” 

“ The game is not worth the candle. And yet it was a 
triumph to have both the duke and Tom Towers. You 
must confess that I have not managed badly.” 

Soon after that the Greshams went away, and in an hour’s 
time or so Miss Dunstable was allowed to drag herself to 
her own bed. 

That is the great question to be asked on all such occa- 
sions, “ Is the game worth the candle ?” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

THE GRANTLY TRIUMPH. 

It has been mentioned cursorily — the reader, no doubt, 
will have forgotten it — that Mrs. Grantly was not specially 
invited by her husband to go up to town with the view of 
being present at Miss Dunstable’s party. Mrs. Grantly 
said nothing on the subject, but she was somewhat cha- 
grined ; not on account of the loss she sustained with ref- 
erence to that celebrated assembly, but because she felt 
that her daughter’s affairs required the supervision of a 
mother’s eye. She also doubted the final ratification of that 
Lufton-Grantly treaty, and, doubting it, she did not feel 
quite satisfied that her daughter should be left in Lady 
Lufton’s hands. She had said a word or two to the arch- 
deacon before he 'went up, but only a word or two, for she 
hesitated to trust him in so delicate a matter. She was, 
therefore, not a little surprised at receiving, on the second 
morning after her husband’s departure, a letter from him 
desiring her immediate presence in London. She was sur- 
prised ; but her heart was filled rather with hope than dis- 
may, for she had full confidence in her daughter’s discre- 
tion. 

On the morning after the party. Lady Lufton and Gri- 
selda had breakfasted together as usual, but each felt that 
the manner of the other was altered. Lady Lufton thought 
that her young friend was somewhat less attentive, and 


834 


FRAMLEY FARSONAGE. 


perhaps less meek in her demeanor than usual, and Griselda 
felt that Lady Lufton was less affectionate. Very little, 
however, was said between them, and Lady Lufton express- 
ed no surprise when Griselda begged to be left alone at 
home, instead of accompanying her ladyship when the car- 
riage came to the door. 

Nobody called in Bruton Street that afternoon — no one, 
at least, was let in — except the archdeacon. He came 
there late in the day, and remained with his daughter till 
Lady Lufton returned. Then he took his leave, with more 
abruptness than was usual with him, and without saying 
any thing special to account for the duration of his visit. 
Neither did Griselda say any thing special; and so the 
evening wore away, each feeling in some unconscious man- 
ner that she w'as on less intimate terms with the other than 
had previously been the case. 

On the next day also Griselda would not go out, but at 
four o’clock a servant brought a letter to her from Mount 
Street. Her mother had arrived in London and wished to 
see her at once. Mrs. Grantly sent her love to Lady Luf- 
ton, and would call at half past five, or at any later hour 
at which it might be convenient for Lady Lufton to see 
her. Griselda was to stay and dine in Mount Street ; so 
said the letter. Lady Lufton declared that she would be 
very happy to see Mrs. Grantly at the hour named ; and 
then, armed with this message, Griselda started for her 
mother’s lodgings. 

“ I’ll send the carriage for you,” said Lady Lufton. “ I 
sujopose about ten will do.” 

“Thank you,” said Griselda, “that will do very nicely;” 
and then she went. 

Exactly at half past five Mrs. Grantly was shown into 
Lady Lufton’s drawing-room. Her daughter did not come 
with her, and Lady Lufton could sec by the expression of 
her friend’s face that business was to be discussed. In- 
deed, it was necessary that she herself should discuss busi- 
ness, for Mrs. Grantly must now be told that the family 
treaty could not be ratified. The gentleman declined the 
alliance, and poor Lady Lufton was uneasy in her mind at 
the nature of the task before her. 

“Your coming up has been rather unexpected,” said 
Lady Lufton, as soon as her friend was seated on the sofa. 

“Yes, indeed; I got a letter from the archdeacon only 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


335 


this morning, made it absolutely necessary that I 

should come.” 

“'No bad news, I hope,” said Lady Lufton. 

“No, I can’t call it bad news. But, dear Lady Lufton, 
things won’t always turn out exactly as one would have 
them.” 

“No, indeed,” said her ladyship, remembering that it 
was incumbent on her to explain to Mrs. Grantly now at 
this iDresent interview the tidings with which her mind was 
fraught. She would, however, let Mrs. Grantly first tell 
lier own story, feeling, perhaps, that the one might possi- 
bly bear upon the other. 

“ Poor dear Griselda !” said Mrs. Grantly, almost with 
a sigh. “ I need not tell you. Lady Lufton, what my hopes 
were regarding her.” 

“ Has she told you any thing — any thing that — ” 

“She would have spoken to you at once — and it was 
due to you that she should have done so — but she was 
timid, and not unnaturally so. And then it was right that 
she should see her father and me before she quite made up 
her own mind. But I may say that it is settled now.” 

“What is settled?” asked Lady Lufton. 

“ Of course, it is impossible for any one to tell before- 
hand how these things will turn out,” continued Mrs. 
Grantly, beating about the bush rather more than was nec- 
essary. “The dearest wish of my heart was to see her 
married to Lord Lufton. I should so much have wished 
to have her in the same county with me, and such a match 
as that would have fully satisfied my ambition.” 

“Well, I should rather think it might!” Lady Lufton 
did not say this out loud, but she thought it. Mrs. Grant- 
ly was absolutely speaking of a match between her daugh- 
ter and Lord Lufton as though she would have displayed 
some amount of Christian moderation in putting up with 
it ! Griselda Grantly might be a very nice girl ; but even 
she — so thought Lady Lufton at the moment — might pos- 
sibly be priced too highly. 

“ Dear Mrs. Grantly,” she said, “ I have foreseen for the 
last few days that our mutual hopes in this respect would 
not be gratified. Lord Lufton, I think — but perhaps it is 
not necessary to explain. Had you not come up to town 
I should have written to you — probably to-day. Whatev- 
er may be dear Griselda’s fate in life, I sincerely hope that 
she may be happy.” 


336 


FRAMLEY PAliSONAGE. 


“ I think sliG will,” said Mrs. Grantly, in a tone that ex- 
pressed much satisfaction. 

“ Has — has any thing — ” 

“ Lord Dumbello proposed to Griselda the other night, 
at Miss Dunstable’s party,” said Mrs. Grantly, with her 
eyes fixed upon the floor, and assuming on the sudden 
much meekness in her manner; “and his lordship was 
with the archdeacon yesterday, and again this morning. I 
fancy he is in Mount Street at the present moment.” 

“ Oh, indeed !” said Lady Lufton. She would have 
given worlds to have possessed at the moment sufflcient 
self-command to have enabled her to express in her tone 
and manner unqualified satisfaction at the tidings. But 
she had not such self-command, and was painfully aware 
of her own deficiency. 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Grantly. “And as it is all so far set- 
tled, and as I know you are so kindly anxious about dear 
Griselda, I thought it right to let you know at once. bT oth- 
ing can be more upright, honorable, and generous than 
Lord Dumbello’s conduct; and, on the whole, the match 
is one with which I and the archdeacon can not but be 
contented.” 

“ It is certainly a great match,” said Lady Lufton. 
“ Have you seen Lady Hartletop yet ?” 

Now Lady Hartletop could not be regarded as an agree- 
able connection, but this was the only word which escaped 
from Lady Lufton that could be considered in any way 
disparaging, and, on the whole, I thiuk that she behaved 
well. 

“ Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master that 
that has not been necessary,” said Mrs. Grantly. “The 
marquis has been told, and the archdeacon Avill see him 
either to-morrow or the day after.” 

There was nothing left for Lady Lufton but to congrat- 
Tilate her friend, and this she did in words perhaps not 
very sincere, but which, on the whole, were not badly 
chosen. 

“ I am sure I hope she will be very happy,” said Lady 
Lufton, “and I trust that the alliance” — the word was 
very agreeable to Mrs. Grantly’s ear — “ will give unalloyed 
gratification to you and to her father. The position which 
slie is called to fill is a very splendid one, but I do not 
think that it is above her merits.” 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


337 


This was very generous, and so Mrs. Grantly felt it. 
She had expected that her news would be received with 
the coldest shade of civility, and she was quite prepared to 
do battle if there were occasion. But she had no wish for 
war, and was almost grateful to Lady Lufton for her cor- 
diality. 

‘‘ Dear Lady Lufton,” she said, “ it is so kind of you to 
say so. I have told no one else, and of course would tell 
no one till you knew it. 'No one has known her and un- 
derstood her so well as you have done. And I can assure 
'.you of this — that there is no one to whose friendship she 
looks forward in her new sphere of life with half so much 
pleasure as she does to yours.” 

Lady Lufton did not say much farther. She could not 
declare that she expected much gratification from an inti- 
macy with the future Marchioness of Hartletop. The Har- 
tletops and Luftons must, at any rate for her generation, 
live ill a world apart, and she had now said all that her 
old friendship with Mrs. Grantly required. Mrs. Grantly 
understood all this quite as well as did Lady Lufton ; but 
then Mrs. Grantly was much the better woman of the world. 

It was arranged that Griselda should come back to Bru- 
ton Street for that night, and that her visit should then be 
brought to a close. 

“ The archdeacon thinks that for the present I had bet- 
ter remain up in town,” said Mrs. Grantly ; “ and, under 
the very peculiar circumstances, Griselda will be — perhaps 
more comfortable with me.” 

To this Lady Lufton entirely agreed ; and so they part- 
ed, excellent friends, embracing each other in a most affec- 
tionate manner. 

That evening Griselda did return to Bruton Street, and 
Lady Lufton had to go through the farther task of con- 
gratulating her. This was the more disagreeable of the 
two, especially so as it had to be thought over beforehand. 
But the young lady’s excellent good sense and sterling 
qualities made the task comparatively an easy one. She 
neither cried, nor was impassioned, nor went into hyster- 
ics, nor showed any emotion. She did not even talk of her 
noble Dumbello — her generous Dumbello. She took Lady 
Lufton’s kisses almost in silence, thanked her gently for 
her kindness, and made no allusion to her own future gran- 
deur. 


338 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ I think I should like to go to bed early,” she said, “ as 
I must see to my packing up.” 

“ Richards will do all that for you, my dear.” 

“ Oh yes, thank you, nothing can be kinder than Rich- 
ards. But I’ll just see to my own dresses.” 

And so she went to bed early. 

Lady Lufton did not see her son for the next two days, 
but when she did, of course she said a word or two about 
Griselda. 

“ You have heard the news, Ludovic?” she asked. 

“ Oh yes ; it’s at all the clubs. I have been overwhelm- 
ed Avith presents of willow branches.” 

“ You, at any rate, have got nothing to regret,” she said. 

“Nor you either, mother. I am sure that you do not 
think you liave. Say that you do not regret it. Dearest 
mother, say so for my sake. Do you not knoAV in your 
lieart of hearts that she was not suited to be happy as my 
Avife, or to make me happy ?” 

“ Perhaps not,” said Lady Lufton, sighing. And then 
she kissed her son, and declared to herself that no girl in 
England could be good enough for him. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

SALMON FISHING IN NORAVAY. 

Lord Dhmbello’s engagement Avith Griselda Grantly 
Avas the talk of the tOAvn for the next ten days. It form- 
ed, at least, one of tAvo subjects Avhicli monopolized atten- 
tion, the other being that dreadful rumor, first put in mo- 
tion by Tom ToAvers at Miss Dunstable’s party, as to a 
threatened dissolution of Parliament. 

“Perhaps, after all, it Avill be the best thing for us,” said 
Mr. Green Walker, Avho felt himself to bo tolerably safe at 
CrcAve Junction. 

“ I regard it as a most Avicked attempt,” said Harold 
Smith, Avho was not equally secure in his own borough, and 
to whom the expense of an election Avas disagreeable. “ It 
is done in order that they may get time to tide over the 
autumn. They Avon’t gain ten votes by a dissolution, and 
less than forty Avould hardly give them a majority. But 
they liave no sense of public duty — none Avhatevcr, In- 
deed, I don’t knoAV Avho has.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


339 


“ No, by Jove, that’s just it. That’s what my aunt, Lady 
Hartletop, says ; there is no sense of duty left in the world. 
By-the-by, what an uncommon fool Dumbello is making 
himself!” And then the conversation went off to that 
other topic. 

Lord Lufton’s joke against himself about the willow 
branches was all very well, and nobody dreamed that his 
heart was sore in that matter. The world was laughing 
at Lord Dumbello for what it chose to call a foolish match, 
and Lord Lufton’s friends talked to him about it as though 
they had never suspected that he could have made an ass 
of himself in the same direction ; but, nevertheless, he was 
not altogether contented. He by no means wished to 
marry Griselda ; he had declared to himself a dozen times 
since he had first suspected his mother’s manoeuvres that 
no consideration on earth should induce him to do so ; he 
had pronounced her to be cold, insipid, and unattractive in 
spite of her beauty; and yet he felt almost angry that 
Lord Dumbello should have been successful. And this, 
too, was the more inexcusable, seeing that ho had never 
forgotten Lucy Robarts, had never ceased to love her, and 
that, in holding those various conversations within his own 
bosom, he was as loud in Lucy’s favor as he was in dis- 
praise of Griselda. 

“ Your hero, then,” I hear some well-balanced critic say, 
“is not worth very much.”. 

In the first place. Lord Lufton is not my hero ; and, in 
the next place, a man may be very imperfect and yet Avorth 
a great deal. A man may be as imperfect as Lord Lufton, 
and yet Avorthy of a good mother and a good wife. If 
not, how many of us are uuAVorthy of the mothers and 
Avives Ave have ! It is my belief that feAV young men settle 
themselves doAvn to the Avork of the world — to the beget- 
ting of children, and carving, and paying, and struggling, 
and fretting for the same, without having first been in love 
Avitli four or five possible mothers for them, and probably 
Avith tAVO or three at the same time. And yet these men 
are, as a rule, Avorthy of the excellent Avives that ultimately 
fall to their lot. In this way Lord Lufton had, to a certain 
extent, been in love Avith Griselda. There had been one 
moment in his life in Avhich he would have offered her his 
hand, had not her discretion been so excellent ; and, though 
tliat moment never returned, still he suftered from some 


340 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


feeling akin to disappointment when he learned that Gri- 
selda had been won and was to be worn. He was, then, a 
dog in the manger, you will say. Well, and are we not all 
dogs in the manger more or less actively ? Is not that 
manger-doggishness one of the most common phases of the 
human heart ? 

But not the less was Lord Lufton truly in love with Lucy 
Robarts. Had he fancied that any Dumbello was carry- 
ing on a siege before that fortress, his vexation would have 
manifested itself in a very different manner. He could 
joke about' Griselda Grantly with a frank face and a happy 
tone of voice ; but had he heard of any tidings of a similar 
import with reference to Lucy, he would have been past 
all joking, and I much doubt whether it would not even 
have affected his appetite. 

“ Mother,” he said to Lady Lufton a day or two after 
the declaration of Griselda’s engagement, “ I am going to 
Norway to fish.” 

“ To Norway — to fish !” 

“Yes. We’ve got rather a nice party. Clontarf is go- 
ing, and Culpepper — ” 

“ What, that horrid man !” 

“He’s an excellent hand at fishing; and Haddington 
Peebles, and — and — there’ll be six of us altogether; and 
we start this day week.” 

“ That’s rather sudden, Ludovic.” 

“ Yes, it is sudden ; but we’re sick of London. I should 
not care to go so soon myself, but Clontarf and Culpepper 
say that the season is early this year. I must go dowm to 
Framley before I start — about my horses, and therefore I 
came to tell you that I shall be there to-morrow.” 

“At Framley to-morrow'! If you could put it off for 
three days I should be going myself.” 

But Lord Lufton could not put it off for three days. It 
may be that on this occasion he did not wish for his moth- 
er’s presence at Framley while he was there ; that he con- 
ceived that he should be more at his ease in giving orders 
about his stable if he were alone while so employed. At 
any rate, he declined her company, and on the following 
morning did go down to Framley by himself. 

“ Mark,” said Mrs. Robarts, hurrying into her husband’s 
bookroom about tlie middle of the day, “ Lord Lufton is at 
home. Have you heard it?” 


PRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


341 


“ What ! here at Framley ?” 

“He is over at Framley Court — so the servants say. 
Carson saw him in the paddock with some of the horses. 
Won’t you go and see him ?” 

“Of course I will,” said Mark, shutting up his papers. 
“ Lady Lufton can’t be here, and if he is alone he will 
probably come and dine.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” said Mrs. Robarts, thinking 
of poor Lucy. 

“He is not in the least particular. What does for us 
will do for him. I shall ask him, at any rate.” And, 
without farther parley, the clergyman took up his hat and 
went off in search of his friend. 

Lucy Robarts had been present when the gardener 
brought in tidings of Lord Lufton’s arrival at Framley, 
and was aware that Fanny had gone to tell her husband. 

“ He won’t come here, will he ?” she said, as soon as Mrs. 
Robarts returned. 

“ I can’t say,” said Fanny. “ I hope not. He ought not 
to do so, and I don’t think he will. But Mark says that he 
will ask him to dinner.” 

“ Then, Fanny, I must be taken ill. There is nothing 
else for it.” 

“ I don’t think he will come. I don’t think he can be so 
cruel. Indeed, I feel sure that he won’t ; but I thought it 
right to tell you.” 

Lucy also conceived that it was improbable that Lord 
Lufton should come to the Parsonage under the present 
circumstances; and she declared to herself that it would 
not be possible that she should appear at table if he did do 
so ; but, nevertheless, the idea of his being at Framley was, 
perhaps, not altogether painful to her. She did not recog- 
nize any pleasure as coming to her from his arrival, but still 
there was something in his jDresence which was, uncon- 
sciously to herself, soothing to her feelings. But that ter- 
rible question remained — how was she to act if it should 
turn out that he was coming to dinner ? 

“If he does come, Fanny,” she said, solemnly, after a 
pause, “ I must keep to my own room, and leave Mark to 
think what he pleases. It will be better for me to make a 
fool of myself there than in his joresenco in the drawing- 
room.” 

Mark Robarts took his hat and stick, and went over at 


342 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


once to the home paddock, in which he knew that Lord 
Liifton was engaged with the horse and groom. He also 
was in no supremely happy frame of mind, for his cor- 
respondence wdth Mr. Tozer was on the increase. He had 
received notice from that indefatigable gentleman that cer- 
tain “ overdue bills” were now lying at the bank in Bar- 
chester, and were very desirous of his, Mr. Robarts’s, notice. 
A concatenation of certain peculiarly unfortunate circum- 
stances made it indispensably necessary that Mr. Tozer 
should be repaid, without farther loss of time, the various 
sums of money which he had advanced on the ’credit of 
Mr. Robarts’s name, etc., etc., etc. JSTo absolute threat was 
put forth, and, singular to say, no actual amount w’as named. 
Mr. Robarts, however, could not but observe, with a most 
painfully accurate attention, that mention was made, not 
of an overdue bill, but of overdue bills. What if Mr. Tozer 
were to demand from him the instant repayment of nine 
hundred pounds ? Hitherto he had merely written to Mr. 
Sowerby, and he might have had an answer from that gen- 
tleman this morning, but no such answer had as yet reached 
him. Consequently he was not, at the present moment, in 
a very happy frame of mind. 

He soon found himself with Lord Lufton and the horses. 
Four or five of them were being walked sloAvly about the 
paddock, in the care of as many men or boys, and the 
sheets were being taken off them — off one^ after another, 
so that their master might look at them wdth the more ac- 
curacy and satisfaction. But, though Lord Lufton was 
thus doing his duty, and going through his work, he was 
not doing it with his whole heart, as the head groom per- 
ceived very well. He was fretful about the nags, and 
seemed anxious to get them out of his sight as soon as he 
I liad made a decent pretext of looking at them. 

“ How are you, Lufton ?” said Rob^arts, coming forward. 
“ They told me that you were down, and so I came across 
at once.” 

“Yes; I only got here this morning, and should have 
been over wdth you directly. I am going to Norway for 
six weeks or so, and it seems that the fish are so early this 
year that we must start at once. I have a matter on which 
I want to speak to you before I leave, and, indeed, it was 
that which brought me down more than any thing else.” 

There was something hurried and not altogether easy 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


343 


about his manner as he spoke, which struck Robarts, and 
made him think that this promised matter to be spoken of 
would not be agreeable in discussion. He did not know 
whether Lord Lufton might not again be mixed up with 
Tozer and the bills. 

“You will dine "with us to-day,” he said, “if, as I sup- 
pose, you are all alone.” 

“ Yes, I am all alone.” 

“ Then you’ll come ?” 

“Well, I don’t quite know. Ho, I don’t think I can go 
over to dinner. Don’t look so disgusted. I’ll explain it 
all to you just now.” 

What could there be in the wind ; and how was it pos- 
sible that Tozer’s bill should make it inexpedient for Lord 
Lufton to dine at the parsonage ? Robarts, however, said 
nothing farther about it at the moment, but turned off to 
look at the horses. 

“They are an uncommonly nice set of animals,” said he. 

“Well, yes; I don’t know. When a man has four or 
five horses to look at, somehow or other he never has one 
fit to go. The chestnut mare is a picture now that nobody 
wants her, but she wasn’t able to carry me well to hounds 
a single day last winter. Take them in, Pounce ; that’ll do.” 

“Won’t your lordship run your eye over the old black 
’oss ?” said Pounce, the head groom, in a melancholy tone ; 
“ he’s as fine, sir — as fine as a stag.” 

“To tell you the truth, I think they’re too fine; but 
that’ll do; take them in. And now, Mark, if you’re at 
leisure, we’ll take a turn round the place.” 

Mark, of course, was at leisure, and so they started on 
their Avalk. 

“You’re too difiicult to please about your stable,” Ro- 
barts began. 

“ Hever mind the stable now,” said Lord Lufton. “ The 
truth is, I am not thinking about it. Mark,” he then said, 
very abruptly, “I w^ant you to be frank with me. Has 
your sister ever spoken to you about me ?” 

“ My sister — Lucy ?” 

“Yes, your sister Lucy.” 

“Ho, never — at least nothing especial — nothing that I 
can remember at this moment.” 

“Hor your wife?” 

“ Spoken about you ! Fanny ? Of course she has, in an 


344 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


ordinary way. It would be impossible that she should 
not. But what do you mean ?” 

“ Have either of them told you that I made an offer to 
your sister ?” 

“ That you made an offer to Lucy ?” 

“Yes, that I made an offer to Lucy.” 

“]N'o; nobody has told me so. I have never dreamed 
of such a thing ; nor, as far as I believe, have they. If 
any body has spread such report, or said that either of 
them have hinted at such a thing, it is a base lie. Good 
heavens ! Lufton, for what do you take them ?” 

“ But I did,” said his lordship. 

“ Did what ?” said the parson. 

“ I did make your sister an offer.” 

“You made Lucy an offer of marriage?” 

“Yes, I did — in as plain language as a gentleman could 
use to a lady.” 

“ And what answer did she make ?” 

“ She refused me. And now, Mark, I have come down 
here with the express purpose of making that offer again. 
N’othing could be more decided than your sister’s answer. 
It struck me as being almost uncourteously decided. But 
still it is possible that circumstances may have weighed 
with her which ought not to weigh with her. If her love 
be not given to any one else, I may still have a chance of 
it. It’s the old story of faint heart, you know; at any 
rate, I mean to try my luck again ; and, thinking over it 
with deliberate purpose, I have come to the conclusion that 
I ought to tell you before I see her.” 

Lord Lufton in love with Lucy! As these words re- 
peated themselves over and over again within Mark Ro- 
barts’s mind, his mind added to them notes of surprise 
without end. How had it possibly come about — and why? 
In his estimation his sister Lucy was a very simple girl — 
not plain indeed, but by no means beautiful ; certainly not 
stupid, but by no means brilliant. And then, he would 
have said, that of all men whom he knew. Lord Lufton 
would have been the last to fall in love with such a girl as his 
sister. And now, what was he to say or do ? What views 
was he bound to hold ? In what direction should he act ? 
There was Lady Lufton on the one side, to whom he owed 
every thing. How would life be possible to him in that 
parsonage — within a few yards of her elbow — if he con- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


345 


sented to receive Lord Liifton as the acknowledged suitor 
of his sister ? It would be a great match for Lucy, doubt- 
less ; but — Indeed, he could not bring himself to believe 
that Lucy could in truth become the absolute reigning 
queen of Framley Court. 

“ Do you think that Fanny knows any thing of all this?” 
he said, after a moment or two. 

“ I can not possibly tell. If she does, it is not with my 
knowledge. I should have thought that you could best 
answer that.” 

“ I can not answer it at all,” said Mark. “ I, at least, 
have had not the remotest idea of such a thing.” 

“ Your ideas of it now need not be at all remote,” said 
Lord Lufton, with a faint smile ; “ and you may know it 
as a fact. I did make her an offer of marriage ; I was re- 
fused ; I am going to repeat it ; and I am now taking you 
into my confidence, in order that, as her brother and as 
my friend, you may give me such assistance as you can.” 
They then walked on in silence for some yards, after which 
Lord Lufton added, “ And now I’ll dine with you to-day 
if you wish it.” 

Mr. Robarts did not know what to say ; he could not 
bethink himself what answer duty required of him. He 
had no right to interfere between his sister and such a 
marriage, if she herself should wish it ; but still there was 
something terrible in the thought of it. He had a vague 
conception that it must come to evil ; that the project was 
a dangerous one ; and that it could not finally result hap- 
pily for any of them. What would Lady Lufton say? 
That, undoubtedly, was the chief source of his dismay. 

“Have you spoken to your mother about this?” he 
said. 

“ My mother ? no ; why speak to her till I knoAV my 
fate ? A man does not like to speak much of such matters 
if there be a probability of his being rejected. I tell you 
because I do not like to make my way into your house 
under a false pretense.” 

“ But what would Lady Lufton say ?” 

“ I think it probable that she would be displeased on 
the first hearing it ; that in four-and-twenty hours she 
would be reconciled ; and that after a week or so Lucy 
would be her dearest favorite and the j^rime minister of 
all her machinations. You don’t know my mother as well 
P2 


34G 


FKAMLEY TARSONAGE. 


as I do. She would give her head off her shoulders to do 
me a pleasure.” 

“And for that reason,” said Mark Robarts, “you ought, 
if possible, to do her pleasure.” 

“ I can not absolutely marry a wife of her choosing, if 
you mean that,” said Lord Lufton. 

They went on walking about the garden for an hour, 
but they hardly got any farther than the point to which 
we have now brought them. Mark Robarts could not^ 
make up his mind on the spur of the moment ; nor, as he 
said more than once to Lord Lufton, could he be at all 
sure that Lucy would in any way be guided by him. It 
was, therefore, at last settled between them that Lord Luf- 
ton should come to the Parsonage immediately after break- 
fast on the following morning. It was agreed also that the 
dinner had better not come off, and Robarts promised that 
he would, if possible, have determined by the morning as 
to what advice he would give his sister. 

He went direct home to the Parsonage from Framley 
Court, feeling that he was altogether in the dark till he 
should have consulted his wife. How would he feel if 
Lucy were to become Lady Lufton ? and how would he 
\ook Lady Lufton in the face in telling her that such was to 
be his sister’s destiny ? On returning home he immediately 
found his wife, and had not been closeted with her five 
minutes before he knew, at any rate, all that she knew. 

“ And you mean to say that she does love him ?” said 
Mark. 

“ Indeed she does ; and is it not natural that she should ? 
When I saw them so much together I feared that she 
would, but I never thought that he would care for her.” 

Even Fanny did not as yet give Lucy credit for half her 
attractiveness. After an hour’s talking the interview be- 
tween the husband and wife ended in a message to Lucy, 
begging her to join them both in the book-room. 

“Aunt Lucy,” said a chubby little darling, who was 
taken up into his aunt’s arms as he spoke, “ papa and mam- 
ma ’ant ’oo in te tuddy, and I mus’n’t go wis ’oo.” 

Lucy, as she kissed the boy and pressed his face against 
her own, felt that her blood was running quick to her heart. 

“ Mus’n’t ’oo go wis me, my own one ?” she said, as she 
put her playfellow down ; but she played with the child 
only because she did not wish to betray even to him that 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


347 


slie was hardly mistress of herself. She knew that Lord 
Lufton was at Framley ; she knew that her brother had 
been to him ; she knew that a proposal had been made 
that he should come there that day to dinner. Must it 
not therefore be the case that this call to a meeting in the 
study had arisen out of Lord Lufton’s arrival at Framley ? 
and yet, how could it have done so ? Had Fanny betrayed 
her in order to prevent the dinner invitation? It could 
not be possible that Lord Lufton himself should have spo- 
ken on the subject. And then she again stooped to kiss 
the child, rubbed her hands across her forehead to smooth 
her hair, and erase, if that might be possible, the look of 
care which she wore, and then descended slowly to her 
brother’s sitting-room. 

. Her hand paused for a second on the door ere she open- 
ed it; but she had resolved that, come what might, she 
would be brave. She pushed it open and walked in with 
a bold front, with eyes wide open, and a slow step. 

“ Frank says that you want me,” she said. 

Mr. Robarts and Fanny were both standing up by the 
fireplace, and each waited a second for the other to speak 
when Lucy entered the room ; and then Fanny began — 

“ Lord Lufton is here, Lucy.” 

“ Here ! Where ? At the Parsonage ?” 

“ No, not at the Parsonage, but over at Framley Court,” 
said Mark. 

“And he promises to call here after breakfast to-mor- 
row,” said Fanny. And then again there was a pause. 
Mrs. Robarts hardly dared to look Lucy in the face. She 
had not betrayed her trust, seeing that the secret had been 
told to Mark, not by her, but by Lord Lufton ; but she 
could not but feel that Lucy would think that she had be- 
trayed it. 

“Very well,” said Lucy, trying to smile; “I have no 
objection in life.” 

“ But, Lucy, dear” — and now Mrs. Robarts put her arm 
round her sister-in-law’s waist — “ he is coming here espe- 
cially to see you.” 

“ Oh, that makes a difiference. I am afraid that I shall 
be — engaged.” 

“ He has told every thing to Mark,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

Lucy now felt that her bravery was almost deserting 
her. She hardly knew wliich way to look or how to stand. 


348 


FRA3ILEY PARSONAGE. 


Had Fanny told every thing also ? There was so much 
that Fanny knew that Lord Lufton could not have known. 
But, in truth, Fanny had told all — the whole story of Lucy’s 
love, and had described the reasons which had induced her 
to reject her suitor, and had done so in words which, had 
Lord Lufton heard them, would have made him twice as 
passionate in his love. 

And then it certainly did occur to Lucy to think why 
Lord Lufton should have come to Framley and told all this 
history to her brother. She attempted for a moment to 
make herself believe that she was angry with him for do- 
ing so. But she was not angry. She had not time to ar 
gue much about it ; but there came upon her a gratified 
sensation of having been remembered, and thought of, and 
— loved. Must it not be so ? Could it be possible that he 
himself would have told this tale to her brother if he did 
not still love her ? Fifty times she had said to herself that 
his offer had been an affair of the moment, and fifty times 
she had been unhappy in so saying. But this new coming 
of his could not be an affair of the moment. She had been 
the dupe, she had thought, of an absurd passion on her 
own part ; but now — how was it now ? She did not bring 
herself to think that she should ever be Lady Lufton. She 
had still, in some perversely obstinate manner, made up 
her mind against that result. But yet, nevertheless, it did 
in some unaccountable manner satisfy her to feel that Lord 
Lufton had himself come down to Framley and himself told 
this story. 

“ He has told every thing to Mark,” said Mrs. Robarts ; 
and then again there was a pause for a moment, during 
which these thoughts passed through Lucy’s mind. 

“ Yes,” said Mark, “ he has told me all, and he is coming 
here to-morrow morning that he may receive an answer 
from yourself.” 

“ What answer ?” said Lucy, trembling. 

“ Nay, dearest, who can say that but yourself?” and her 
sister-in-law, as she spoke, pressed close against her. “You 
must say that yourself.” 

Mrs. Robarts, in her long conversation with her husband, 
had pleaded strongly on Lucy’s behalf, taking, as it were, 
a part against Lady Lufton. She had said that if Lord 
Lufton persevered in his suit, they at the Parsonage could 
not be justified in robbing Lucy of all that she had won for 
herself in order to do Lady Lnfton’s pleasure. 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


349 


“ But she will think,” said Mark, “ that we have plotted 
and intrigued for this. She wall call us ungrateful, and 
will make Lucy’s life wretched.” To which the wife had 
answered that all that must be left in God’s hands. They 
had not plotted or intrigued. Lucy, though loving the man 
in her heart of hearts, had already once refused him, be- 
cause she would not be thought to have snatched at so 
great a prize. But if Lord Lufton loved her so warmly 
that he had come down there in this manner, on purpose, 
as he himself had put it, that he might learn his fate, then 
— so argued Mrs. Bobarts — they two, let their loyalty to 
Lady Lufton be ever so strong, could not justify it to their 
consciences to stand between Lucy and her lover. Mark 
had still somewhat demurred to this, suggesting how ter- 
rible would be their plight if they should now encourage 
Lord Lufton, and if he, after such encouragement, when 
they should have quarreled with Lady Lufton, should allow 
himself to be led away from his engagement by his mother. 
To which Fanny had announced that justice was justice, 
and that right was right. Every thing must be told to 
Lucy, and she must judge for herself. 

“But I do not know what Lord Lufton w’ants,” said 
Lucy, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and now trem- 
bling more than ever. “He did come to me, and I did 
give him an answer.” 

“ And is that answer to be final ?” said Mark, somewhat 
cruelly, for Lucy had not yet been told that her lover had 
made any repetition of his proposal. Fanny, however, de- 
termined that no injustice should be done, and therefore 
she at last continued the story. 

“We know that you did give him an answer, dearest, 
but gentlemen sometimes wdll not put up with one answer 
on such a subject. Lord Lufton has declared to Mark that 
he means to ask again. He has come down here on pur- 
2)ose to do so.” 

“ And Lady Lufton — ” said Lucy, speaking hardly above 
a whisper, and still hiding her face as she leaned against 
her sister’s shoulder. 

“Lord Lufton has not spoken to his mother about it,” 
said Mark ; and it immediately became clear to Lucy, from 
the tone of her brother’s voice, that he, at least, would not 
be pleased should she accept her lover’s vow. 

“You must decide out of your own heart, dear,” said 


350 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


Fanny, generously. “Mark and I know how well you 
have behaved, for I have told him every thing.” Lucy 
shuddered and leaned closer against her sister as this was 
said to her. “ I had no alternative, dearest, but to tell him. 
It was best so, was it not? But nothing has been told to 
Lord Lufton. Mark would not let him come here to-day 
because it would have flurried you, and he wished to give 
you time to think. But you can see him to-morrow morn- 
ing, can you not ? and then answer him.” 

Lucy now stood perfectly silent, feeling that she dearly 
loved her sister-iii-law for her sisterly kindness — for that 
sisterly wish to promote a sister’s love ; but still there was 
in her mind a strong resolve not to allow Lord Lufton to 
come there under the idea that he would be received as a 
favored lover. Her love was powerful, but so also was her 
pride ; and she could not bring herself to bear the scorn, 
which would lay in Lady Lufton’s eyes. “ His mother will 
despise me, and then he will despise me too,” she said to 
herself ; and with a strong gulp of disappointed love and 
ambition she determined to persist. 

“ Shall we leave you now, dear, and speak of it again to- 
morrow morning before he comes ?” said Fanny. 

“ That will be the best,” said Mark. “ Turn it in your 
mind every way to-night. Think of it when you have said 
your prayers — and, Lucy, come here to me ;” then, taking 
her in his arms, he kissed her with a tenderness that was 
not customary with him toward her. “ It is fair,” said he, 
“ that I should tell you this — that I have perfect confidence 
in your judgment and feeling, and that I will stand by you 
as your brother in whatever decision you may come to. 
Fanny and I both think that you have behaved excellently, 
and are both of us sure that you will do what is best. 
Whatever you do I will stick to you, and so will Fanny.” 

“ Dearest, dearest Mark !” 

“And now we will say nothing more about it till to- 
morrow morning,” said Fanny. 

But Lucy felt that this saying nothing more about it till 
to-morrow morning would be tantamount to an acceptance 
on her part of Lord Lufton’s ofter. Mrs. Robarts knew, 
and Mr. Robarts also now knew, the secret of her heart; 
and if, such being the case, she allowed Lord Lufton to 
come there with the acknowledged purpose of pleading his 
own suit, it would be impossible for her not to yield. If 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


351 


she were resolved that she would not yield, now was the 
time for her to stand her ground and make her fight. 

“ Do not go, Fanny — at least not quite yet,” she said. 

“Well, dear?” 

“ I want you to stay while I tell Mark. He must not let 
Lord Lufton come here to-morrow.” 

“Not let him !” said Mrs. Roharts. 

Mr. Roharts said nothing, but he felt that his sister was 
rising in his esteem from minute to minute. 

“ No ; Mark must bid him not come. He will not wish 
to pain me when it can do no good. Look here, Mark;” 
and she walked over to her brother, and put both her 
hands upon his arm. “ I do love Lord Lufton. I had no 
such meaning or thought when I first knew him. But I 
do love him — I love him dearly — almost as well as Fanny 
loves you, I suppose. You may tell him so if you think 
proper — nay, you must tell him so, or he will not under- 
stand me. But tell him this as coming from me, that I 
will never marry him unless his mother asks me.” 

“ She will not do that, I fear,” said Mark, sorrowfully. 

“No, I suppose not,” said Lucy, now regaining all her 
courage. “ If I thought it probable that she should wish 
me to be her daughter-in-law, it would not be necessary 
that I should make such a stipulation. It is because she 
will not wish it — because she would regard me as unfit to 
— to — to mate with her son. She would hate me, and scorn 
me ; and then he would begin to scorn me, and perhaps 
would cease to love me. I could not bear her eye upon 
me if she thought that I had injured her son. Mark, you 
will go to him now, will you not? and explain this to 
him — as much of it as is necessary. Tell him that if his 
mother asks me I will — consent ; but that, as I know that 
she never will, he is to look upon all that he has said as for- 
gotten. With me it shall be the same as though it were 
forgotten.” 

Such was her verdict ; and so confident were they both 
of her firmness — of her obstinacy Mark would have called 
it on any other occasion — that they neither of them sought 
to make her alter it. 

“ You will go to him now — this afternoon, will you not ?” 
she said ; and Mark promised that he would. He could 
not but feel that he himself was greatly relieved. Lady 
Lufton might probably hear that her son had been fool 


352 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


enough to fall in love with the parson’s sister, hut, under 
existing circumstances, she could not consider herself ag- 
grieved either by the parson or by his sister. Lucy was 
behaving well, and Mark was proud of her. Lucy was 
behaving with fierce spirit, and Fanny was grieving for 
her. 

“ I’d rather be by myself till dinner-time,” said Lucy, as 
Mrs. Robarts prepared to go with her out of the room. 
“ Dear Fanny, don’t look unhappy ; there’s nothing to 
make us unhappy. I told you I should want goat’s milk, 
and that will be all.” 

Robarts, after sitting for an hour with his wife, did re- 
turn again to Framley Court, and, after a considerable 
search, found Lord Lufton returning home to a late din- 
ner. 

“ Unless my mother asks her,” said he, when the story 
had been told him. “ That is nonsense. Surely you told 
her that such is not the way of the world.” 

Robarts endeavored to explain to him that Lucy could 
not endure to think that her husband’s mother should look 
on her with disfavor. 

“ Does she think that my mother dislikes her — her spe- 
cially ?” asked Lord Lufton. 

No, Robarts could not suppose that that was the case; 
but Lady Lufton might probably think that a marriage with 
a clergyman’s sister would be a mesalliance. 

“ That is out of the question,” said Lord Lufton, “ as she 
has especially wanted me to marry a clergyman’s daughter 
for some time past. But, Mark, it is absurd talking about 
my mother. A man in these days is not to marry as his 
mother bids him.” 

Mark could only assure him, in answer to all this, that 
Lucy was very firm in what she was doing ; that she had 
quite made up her mind ; and that she altogether absolved 
Lord Lufton from any necessity to speak to his mother, if 
he did not think well of doing so. But all this was to 
very little purpose. 

“ She does love me, then ?” said Lord Lufton. 

“Well,” said Mark, “I will not say whether she does or 
does not. I can only repeat her own message. She can 
not accept you unless she does so at your mother’s re- 
quest.” And, having said that again, ho took his leave 
and went back to the Parsonage. 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


353 


Poor Lucy, having finished her interview with so much 
dignity, having fully satisfied her brother, and declined any 
immediate consolation from her sister-in-law, betook her- 
self to her own bedroom. She had to think over what she 
had said and done, and it was necessary that she should be 
alone to do so. It might be that, when she came to recon- 
sider the matter, she would not be quite so well satisfied 
as was her brother. Her grandeur of demeanor and slow 
propriety of carriage lasted her till she was well into her 
own room. There are animals who, when they are ailing 
in any way, contrive to hide themselves, ashamed, as it 
were, that the weakness of their suffering should be wit- 
nessed. Indeed, I am not sure whether all dumb animals 
do not do so more or less, and in this respect Lucy was 
like a dumb animal. Even in her confidences with Fanny 
she made a joke of her own misfortunes, and spoke of her 
heart ailments with self-ridicule. But now, having walked 
up the staircase with no hurried step, and having deliber- 
ately locked the door, she turned herself round to suffer in 
silence and solitude — as do the beasts and birds. 

She sat herself down on a low chair, which stood at the 
foot of her bed, and, throwing back her head, held her 
handkerchief across her eyes and forehead, holding it tight 
in both her hands ; and then she began to think. She be- 
gan to think and also to cry, for the tears came running 
down from beneath the handkerchief ; and low sobs were 
to be heard — only that the animal had taken itself off to 
suffer in solitude. 

Had she not thrown from her all her chances of haj^pi- 
ness? Was it possible that he should coqie to her yet 
again — a third time ? Ho, it was not possible. The very 
mode and pride of this, her second rejection of him, made 
it impossible. In coming to her determination and making 
her avowal, she had been actuated by the knowledge that 
Lady Lufton would ‘regard such a marriage with abhor- 
rence. Lady Lufton would not, and could not ask her to 
condescend to be her son’s bride. Her chance of happi- 
ness, of glory, of ambition, of love, was all gone. She had 
sacrificed every thing, not to virtue, but to ju’ide. And 
she had sacrificed not only herself, but him. When first 
he came there — when she had meditated over his first visit, 
she had hardly given him credit for deep love ; but now — 
there could be no doubt that he loved her now. After his 


354 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


season in London, bis days and nights passed with all that 
was beautiful, he had returned there, to that little country 
parsonage, that he might throw himself again at her feet. 
And she — she had refused to see him, though she loved 
him with all her heart ; she had refused to see him because 
she was so vile a coward that she could not bear the sour 
looks of an old woman. 

“ I will come down directly,” she said, when Fanny at 
last knocked at the door, begging to be admitted. “I 
won’t open it, love, but I will be with you in ten minutes 
— I will, indeed.” And so she was ; not, perhaps, without 
traces of tears, discernible by the experienced eye of Mrs. 
Robarts, but yet with a smooth brow, and voice under her 
own command. 

“ I wonder whether she really loves him,” Mark said to 
his wife that night. 

“ Love him !” his wife had answered ; “ indeed she does ; 
and, Mark, do not be led away by the Stern quiet of her 
demeanor. To my thinking she is a girl who might almost 
die for love.” 

On the next day Lord Lufton left Framley, and started, 
according to his arrangements, for the Norway salmon 
fishing. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE GOAT AND COMPASSES. 

Haeold Smith had been made unhappy by that rumor 
of a dissolution, but the misfortune to him would be as 
nothing compared to the severity with which it would fall 
on Mr. Sowerby. Harold Smith might or might not lose 
his borough, but Mr. Sowerby would undoubtedly lose his 
county, and in losing that he would lose every thing. He 
felt very certain now that the duke 'would not support him 
again, let who would be master of Chaldicotes, and as he 
reflected on these things he found it very hard to keep up 
his spirits. 

Tom Tow'ers, it seems, had known all about it, as he al- 
ways does. The little remark which had dropped from 
him at Miss Dunstable’s, made, no doubt, after mature de- 
liberation, and with profound political motives, was the 
forerunner, only by twelve hours, of a very general report 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


355 


that the giants were going to the country. It was mani- 
fest that the giants had not a majority in Parliament, gen- 
erous as had been the promises of support disinterestedly 
made to them by the gods. This indeed was manifest, 
and therefore they were going to the country, although 
they had been deliberately warned by a very prominent 
scion of OlymjDus that if they did so that disinterested sup- 
port must be withdrawn. This threat did not seem to 
weigh much, and by two o’clock on the day following Miss 
Dunstable’s party the fiat was presumed to have gone forth. 
The rumor had begun with Tom Towers, but by that time 
it had reached Buggins at the Petty Bag Office. 

“ It won’t make no difference to hus, sir ; will it, Mr. 
Kobarts ?” said Buggins, as he leaned respectfully against 
the wall near the door, in the room of the private secretary 
at that establishment. 

A good deal of conversation, miscellaneous, special, and 
political, went on between young Robarts and Buggins in 
the* course of the day, as was natural, seeing that they were 
thrown in these evil times very much upon each other. 
The Lord Petty'Bag of the present ministry was not such 
a one as Harold Smith. He was a giant indifferent to his 
private notes, and careless as to the duties even of patron- 
age; he rarely visited the office, and as there were no 
other clerks in the establishment — owing to a root and 
branch reform carried out in the short reign of Harold 
Smith — to whom could young Robarts talk, if not to Bug- 
gins ? 

“Ho, I suppose not,” said Robarts, as he completed on 
Ins blotting-paper an elaborate picture of a Turk seated on 
his divan. 

“ ’Cause, you see, sir, we’re in the Upper ’Ouse now, as I 
always thinks we bought to be. I don’t think it ain’t con- 
stitutional for the Petty Bag to be in the Commons, Mr. 
Robarts. Hany ways, it never usen’t.” 

“They’re changing all those sort of things nowadays, 
Buggins,” said Robarts, giving the final touch to the Turk’s 
smoke. 

“Well, I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Robarts, I think I’ll 
go. I can’t stand all these changes. I’m turned of sixty 
now, and don’t want any ’stifflicates. I think I’ll take my 
pension and walk. The hoffice ain’t the same place at all 
since it come down among the Commons.” And then 


356 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


Biiggins retired sighing, to console himself with a pot of 
porter behind a large open office ledger, set up on end on 
a small table in the little lobby outside the private secre- 
tary’s room. Buggins sighed again as he saw that the 
date made visible in the open book was almost as old as 
his own appointment ; for such a book as this lasted long 
in the Petty Bag Office. A peer of high degree had been 
Lord Petty Bag in those days — one whom a messenger’s 
heart could respect with infinite veneration, as he made his 
unaccustomed visits to the office with much solemnity per- 
haps four times during the season. The Lord Petty Bag 
then was highly regarded by his stafi*, and his coming among 
them was talked about for some hours previously and for 
some days afterward ; but Harold Smith had bustled in and 
out like the managing clerk in a Manchester house. “ The 
service is going to the dogs,” said Buggins to himself, as 
he put down the porter-pot and looked up over the book 
at a gentleman who presented himself at the door. 

“ Mr. Robarts in his room ?” said Buggins, repeating the 
gentleman’s words. ‘‘ Yes, Mr. Sowerby, you’ll find him 
there — first door to the left.” And then, remembering 
that the visitor was a county member, a position which 
Buggins regarded as next to that of a peer, he got up, and, 
opening the private secretary’s door, ushered in the visitor. 

Young Bobarts and Mr. Sowerby had, of course, become 
acquainted in the days of Harold Smith’s reign. During 
that short time the member for East Barset had on most 
days dropped in at the Petty Bag Office for a minute or 
two, finding out what the energetic cabinet minister was 
doing, chatting on semi-official subjects, and teaching the 
private secretary to laugh at his master. There was noth- 
ing, therefore, in his present visit which need appear to be 
singular, or which required any immediate special explana- 
tion. He sat himself down in his ordinary way, and began 
to speak of the subject of the day. 

“We’re all to go,” said Sowerby. 

“ So I hear,” said the private secretary. “ It will give 
me no trouble ; for, as the respectable Buggins says, we’re 
in the Upper House now.” 

“ What a delightful time those lucky dogs of lords do 
have!” said Sowerby. “ Ho constituents, no turning out, 
no fighting, no necessity for political opinions — and, as a 
rule, no such opinions at all !” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


S57 


“ I suppose you’re tolerably safe in East Barsetsliire ?” 
said Robarts. “ The duke has it pretty much his own way 
there.” 

‘‘Yes, the duke does have it pretty much his own way. 
By-the-by, where is your brother ?” 

“ At home,” said Robarts ; “ at least I presume so.” 

“At Framley or at Barchester? I believe he was in 
residence at Barchester not long since.” 

“ He’s at Framley now, I know. I got a letter only yes- 
terday from his wife, with a commission. He was there, 
and Lord Luftbn had just left.” 

“Yes, Lufton was down. He started for Norway this 
morning. I want to see your brother. You have not 
heard from him yourself, have you ?” 

“No, not lately. Mark is a bad correspondent. He 
would not do at all for a private secretary.” 

“ At any rate, not to Harold Smith. But you are sure 
I should not catch him at Barchester ?” 

“ Send down by telegraph, and he would meet you.” 

“ I don’t want to do that. A telegraph message makes 
such a fuss in the country, frightening people’s wives, and 
setting ail the horses about the place galloping.” 

“What is it about?” 

“Nothing of any great consequence. I didn’t know 
whether he- might have told you. I’ll write down by to- 
night’s post, and then he can meet me at Barchester to-mor- 
row. Or do you write. There’s nothing I hate so much 
as letter-writing. Just tell him that I called, and that I 
shall be much obliged if he can meet me at the Dragon of 
Wantley — say at two to-morrow. I will go down by the 
express.” 

Mark Robarts, in talking over this coming money trouble 
with Sowerby, had once mentioned that if it were neces- 
sary to take up the bill for a short time he might be able 
to borrow the money from his brother. So much of the 
father’s legacy still remained in the hands of the private 
secretary as Avould enable him to produce the amount of 
the latter bill, and there could be no doubt that he would 
lend it if asked. Mr. Sowerby’s visit to the Petty Bag 
Office had been caused by a desire to learn whether any 
such request had been made, and also by a half-formed res- 
olution to make the request himself if he should find that 
the clergyman had not done so. It seemed to him to be 


358 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


a pity that such a sum should be lying about, as it were, 
within reach, and that he should not stoop to put his hands 
upon it. Such abstinence would be so contrary to all the 
practice of his life that it was as difficult to him as it is for 
a sportsman to let pass a cock-pheasant. But yet some- 
thing like remorse touched his heart as he sat there bal- 
ancing himself on his chair in the private secretary’s room, 
and looking at the young man’s oi^eii face. 

“Yes, I’ll write to him,” said John Robarts; “but he 
hasn’t said any thing to me about any thing particular.” 

“ Hasn’t he ? It does not much signify. I only men- 
tioned it because I thought I understood him to say that 
he would.” And then Mr. Sowerby went on swinging 
himself. How was it that he felt so averse to mention 
that little sum of £500 to a young man like John Robarts, 
a fellow without wife or children, or calls on him of any 
sort, who would not even be injured by the loss of the 
money, seeing that he had- an ample salary on which to 
live ? He wondered at his own weakness. The want of 
the money was urgent on him in the extreme. He had 
reasons for supposing that Mark would find it very difficult 
to renew the bills, but he, Sowerby, could stop their pre-' 
sentation if he could get this money at once into his own 
hands. 

“ Can I do any thing for you ?” said the innocent lamb, 
offering his throat to the butcher. 

But some unwonted feeling numbed the butcher’s fingers 
and blunted his knife. He sat still for half a minute after 
the question, and then jumping from his seat, declined the 
offer. “ H o, no, nothing, thank you. Only write to Mark, 
and say that I shall be there to-morrow and then, taking 
his hat, he hurried out of the office. “ What an ass I am,” 
he said to himself as he went ; “ as if it were of any use 
now to be particular !” 

He then got into a cab and had himself driven half way 
up Portman Street toward the Hew Road, and walking 
from thence a few hundred yards down a cross street, he 
came to a public house. It was called the “ Goat and Com- 
passes” — a very meaningless name, one -would say; but the 
house boasted of being a place of jiublic entertainment 
very long established on that site, having been a tavern 
out in the country in the days of Cromwell. At that time 
the pious landlord, putting up a pious legend for the bene- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


359 


fit of his i^ious customers, had declared that “ God encom- 
passeth us.” The “ Goat and Compasses” in these days 
does quite as well, and, considering the present character 
of the house, was perhaps less unsuitable than the old 
legend. 

“ Is Mr. Austen here ?” asked Mr. Sowerby of the man 
at the bar. 

“Which on ’em? Not Mr. John; he ain’t here. Mr. 
Tom is in — the little room on the left-hand side.” The 
man whom Mr. Sowerby would have preferred to see was 
the elder brother, John ; but, as he was not to be found, 
he did go into the little room. In that room he found — 
Mr. Austen, junior, according to one arrrangement of no- 
menclature, and Mr. Tom Tozer according to another. To 
gentlemen of the legal profession he generally chose to in- 
troduce himself as belonging to the respectable family of 
the Austens, but among his intimates he had always been 
— Tozer. 

Mr. Sowerby, though he was intimate with the family, 
did not love the Tozers, but he especially hated Tom To- 
zer. Tom Tozer was a bull-necked, beetle-browed fellow, 
the expression of whose face was eloquent with acknowl- 
edged roguery. “I am a rogue,” it seemed to say. “I 
know it ; all the world knows it ; but you’re another. All 
the world don’t know that, but I do. Men are all rogues, 
pretty nigh. Some are soft rogues, and some are ’cute 
rogues. I am a ’cute one ; so mind your eye.” It was 
with such words that Tom Tozer’s face spoke out ; and, 
though a thoroimh liar in his heart, he was not a liar in 
his face. 

“Well, Tozer,” said Mr. Sowerby, absolutely shaking 
hands with the dirty miscreant, “I wanted to see your 
brother.” 

“John ain’t here, and ain’t like; but it’s all as one.” 

“ Yes, yes, I suppose it is. I know you two hunt in 
couples.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean about hunting, Mr. Sow- 
erby. You gents ’as all the hunting, and we poor folk ’as 
all the work. I hope you’re going to make up this trifle 
of money we’re out of so long.” 

“It’s about that I’ve called. I don’t know what you 
call long, Tozer, but the last bill was only dated in Feb- 
ruary.” 


360 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ It’s overdue, ain’t it ?” 

“ Oh yes, it’s overdue. There’s no doubt about that.” 

“ Well, when a bit of paper is come round, the next thing 
is to take it up. Them’s my ideas. And, to tell you the 
truth, Mr. Sowerby, we don’t think as ’ow you’ve been 
treating us just on the square lately. In that matter of 
Lord Lufton’s you was down on us uncommon.” 

“You know I couldn’t helj^ myself.” 

“Well, and we can’t help ourselves now. That’s where 
at is, Mr. Sowerby. Lord love you, we know what’s what, 
we do. And so, the fact is, we’re uncommon low as to the 
ready just at present, and we must have them few hundred 
pounds. We must have them at once, or we must sell up 
that clerical gent. I’m dashed if it ain’t as hard to get 
money from a parson as it is to take a bone from a dog. 
’E’s ’ad ’is account, no doubt, and why don’t ’e pay ?” 

Mr. Sowerby had called with the intention of explaining 
that he was about to proceed to Barchester on the follow- 
ing day with the express view of “ making arrangements” 
about this bill, and, had he seen John Tozer, John would 
have been compelled to accord to him some little exten- 
sion of time. Both Tom and John knew this, and there- 
fore John — the soft-hearted one — kept out of the 'svay. 
There was no danger that Tom would be weak ; and, after 
some half hour of parley, he was again left by Mr. Sowerby 
without having evinced any symptom of weakness. 

“ It’s the dibs as we want, Mr. Sowerby, that’s all,” were 
the last words which he spoke as the member of Parliament 
left the room. 

Mr. Sowerby then got into another cab, and had him- 
self driven to his sister’s house. It is a remarkable thing 
with reference to men who are distressed for money — dis- 
tressed as was now the case with Mr. Sowerby — that they 
never seem at a loss for small sums, or deny themselves 
those luxuries which small sums purchase. Cabs, dinners, 
wine, theatres, and new gloves are always at the command 
of men who are drowned in pecuniary embarrassments, 
whereas those who don’t owe a shilling are so frequently 
obliged to go without them ! It would seem that there is 
no gratification so costly as that of keeping out of debt. 
But then it is only fair that, if a man has a hobby, he should 
pay for it. 

Any one else would have saved his shilling, as Mrs. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


361 


Harold Smith’s house was only just across Oxford Street, 
in the neighborhood of Hanover Square ; but Mr. Sowerby 
never thought of this. He had never saved a shilling in 
his life, and it did not occur to him to begin now. He had 
sent word to her to remain at home for him, and he now 
found her waiting. 

“ Harriet,” said he, throwing himself back into an easy- 
chair, “ the game is pretty well up at last.” 

“ISTonsense,” said she. “The game is not up at all, if 
you have the spirit to carry it on.” 

“ I can only say that I got a formal notice this morning 
from the duke’s lawyer, saying that he meant to foreclose 
at once — not from Fothergill, but from those people in 
South Audley Street.” 

“ You expected that,” said his sister. 

“ I don’t see how that makes it any better ; besides, I 
am not quite sure that I did expect it ; at any rate, I did 
not feel certain. There is no doubt now.” 

“ It is better that there should be no doubt. It is much 
better that you should know on what ground you have to 
stand.” 

“ I shall soon have no ground to stand on — none at least 
of my own — not an acre,” said the unhaj^py man, with great 
bitterness in his tone. 

“ You can’t in reality be poorer now than you 'were last 
year. You have not spent any thing to speak of. There 
can be no doubt that Chaldicotes will be ample to pay all 
you owe the duke.” 

“ It’s as much as it will ; and what am I to do then ? I 
almost think more of the seat than I do of Chaldicotes.” 

“You know what I advise,” said Mrs. Smith. “Ask 
Miss Dunstable to advance the money on the same securi- 
ty which the duke holds. She will be as safe then as he is 
now. And if you can arrange that, stand for the county 
against him ; perhaps you may be beaten.” 

°“ I shouldn’t have a chance.” 

“ But it would show that you are not a creature in the 
duke’s hands. That’s my advice,” said Mrs. Smith, with 
much spirit ; “ and, if you wish. I’ll broach it to Miss Dun- 
stable, and ask her to get her lawyer to look into it.” 

“ If I had done this before I had run my head into that 
other absurdity !” 

“ Don’t fret yourself about that ; she will lose nothing 

Q 


362 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


by such an investment, and therefore 3^011 are not asking 
any favor of her. Besides, did she not make the offer? 
and she is just the woman to do this for you now, be- 
cause she refused to do that other thing for you yesterday. 
You understand most things, Nathaniel, but I am not sure 
that you understand women — not, at any rate, such a woman 
as her.” 

It went against the grain with Mr. Sowerby, this seeking 
of pecuniary assistance from the very woman whose hand 
he had attempted to gain about a fortnight since ; but he 
allowed his sister to prevail. What could any man do in 
such straits that would not go against the grain ? At the 
present moment he felt in his mind an infinite hatred against 
the duke, Mr. Fothergill, Gumption and Gagebee, and all 
the tribes of Gatherum Castle and South Audley Street ; 
they wanted to rob him of that which had belonged to the 
Sowerbys before the name of Omnium had been heard of 
in the county, or in England ! The great leviathan of the 
deep was anxious to swallow him up as a prey ! He was 
to be swallowed up, and made away with, and put out of 
sight, without a pang of remorse ! Any measure which 
could now present itself as the means of staving off so evil 
a day would be acceptable, and therefore he gave his sister 
the commission of making this second proposal to Miss 
Dunstable. In cursing the duke — for he did curse the 
duke lustilj" — it hardly occurred to him to think that, after 
all, the duke only asked for his own. 

As for Mrs. Harold Smith, whatever may be the view 
taken of her general character as a wife and a member of 
society, it must be admitted that as a sister she had virtues. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

CONSOLATION. 

On the next day, at two o’clock punctually, Mark Ro- 
barts was at the “Dragon of W^antley,” walking up and 
down the very room in which the party had breakfasted 
after Harold Smith’s lecture, and waiting for the arrival 
of Mr. Sowerby. He had been very well able to divine 
what was the business on which his friend wished to see 
him, and he had been rather glad than otherwise to receive 
the summons. J udging of his friend’s character by what 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


363 


he had hitherto seen, he thought that Mr. Sowerhy would 
have kept out of the way, unless he had it in his power to 
make some provision for these terrible bills. So he walked 
up and down the dingy room, impatient for the expected 
arrival, and thought himself wickedly ill used in that Mr. 
Sowerby was not there when the clock struck a quarter to 
three. But when the clock struck three Mr. Sowerby was 
there, and Mark Robarts’s hopes were nearly at an end. 

“Do you mean that they will demand nine hundred 
pounds ?” said Robarts, standing up and glaring angrily 
at the member of Parliament. 

“ I fear that they will,” said Sowerby. “ I think it is 
best to tell you the worst, in order that we may see what 
can be done.” 

“ I can do nothing, and will do nothing,” said Robarts. 
“They may do what they choose — what the law allows 
them.” 

And then he thought of Fanny and his nursery, and 
Lucy refusing in her pride Lord Lufton’s offer, and he 
turned away his face that the hard man of the world be- 
fore him might not see the tear gathering in his eye. 

“ But, Mark, my dear fellow — ” said Sowerby, trying to 
have recourse to the power of his cajoling voice. 

Robarts, however, would not listen. 

“Mr. Sowerby,” said he, with an attempt at calmness 
which betrayed itself at every syllable, “it seems to me 
that you have robbed me. That I have been a fool, and 
worse than a fool, I know well ; but — but — but I thought 
that your position in the world would guarantee me from 
such treatment as this.” 

Mr. Sowerby was by no means without feeling, and the 
words which he now heard cut him very deeply — the more 
so because it was impossible that he should answer them 
with an attempt at indignation. He had robbed his friend^ 
and, with all his wit, knew no words at the present moment 
sufficiently witty to make it seem that he had not done so. 

“ Robarts,” said he, “ you may say what you like to me 
now ; I shall not resent it.” 

“ AVho would care for your resentment ?” said the cler- 
gyman, turning on him with ferocity. “The resentment 
of a gentleman is terrible to a gentleman, and the resent- 
ment of one just man is terrible to another. Your resent- 
ment !” and then he walked twice the length of the room. 


364 


FKAMLEY TAKSOXAGE. 


leaving Sowerby dumb in his seat. “ I wonder whether 
you ever thought of my wife and children wdien you were 
plotting this ruin for me!” And then again he w^alked 
the room. 

“ I suppose you will be calm enough presently to speak 
of this with some attempt to make a settlement ?” 

“No, I will make no such attempt. These friends of 
yours, you tell me, have a claim on me for nine hundred 
pounds, of Avhich they demand the immediate payment. 
You shall be asked in a court of law how much of that 
money I have handled. You know that I have never 
touched — have never wanted to touch — one shilling. I 
will make no attempt at any settlement. My person is 
here, and there is my house. Let them do their worst.” 

“ But, Mark — ” 

“ Call me by my name, sir, and drop that alfectation of 
regard. What an ass I have been to be so cozened by a 
sharper !” 

Sowerby had by no means expected this. He had al- 
ways known that Hobarts possessed what he, Sowerby, 
would have called the spirit of a gentleman. He had re- 
garded him as a bold, open, generous fellow, able to take 
his own part when called on to do so, and by no means 
disinclined to speak his own mind ; but he had not expect- 
ed from him such a torrent of indignation, or thought that 
he was capable of such a depth of anger. 

“ If you use such language as that, Robarts, I can only 
leave you.” 

“ You are welcome. Go. You tell me that you are the 
messenger of these men who intend to work nine hundred 
pounds out of me. You have done your part in the plot, 
and have now brought their message. It seems to me 
that you had better go back to them. As for me, I want 
my time to prepare my wife for the destiny before her.” 

“ Robarts, you will be sorry some day for the cruelty 
of your words.” 

“ I w'onder whether you will ever be sorry for the cru- 
elty of your doings, or whether these things are really a 
joke to you.” 

“I am at this moment a ruined man,” said Sowerby. 
“ Every thing is going from me — my place in the Avorld, 
the estate of my family, my father’s house, my seat in Par- 
liament, the power of living among my countrymen, or, in- 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


3G5 


deed, of living any where ; but all this does not oppress 
me now so much as the misery which I have brought upon 
you.” And theii Sowerby also turned away his face, and 
wiped from his eyes tears which were not artificial. 

Robarts was still walking up and down the room, but 
it was not possible for him to continue his reproaches after 
this. This is always the case. Let a man endure to heap 
contumely on his own head, and he will silence the con- 
tumely of others — for the moment. Sowerby, without 
meditating on the matter, had had some inkling of this, 
and immediately saw that there was at last an opening for 
conversation. 

“ You are unjust to me,” said he, “in supposing that I 
have now no wish to save you. It is solely in the hope 
of doing so that I have come here.” 

“And what is your hope? That I should accept an- 
other brace of bills, I suppose.” 

“Not a brace, but one renewed bill for — ” 

“ Look here, Mr. Sowerby. On no earthly consideration 
that can be put before me will I again sign my name to 
any bill in the guise of an acceptance. I have been very 
weak, and am ashamed of my weakness; but so much 
strength as that, I hope, is left to me. I have been very 
wicked, and am ashamed of my wickedness ; but so much 
right principle as that, I hope, remains. I will put my 
name to no other bill — not for you, not even for myself.” 

“ But, Robarts, under your present circumstances that 
will be madness.” 

“ Then I will be mad.” 

“ Have you seen Forrest ? If you will speak to him I 
think you will find that every thing can be accommodated.” 

“ I already owe Mr. Forrest a hundred and fifty pounds, 
which I obtained from him when you pressed me for the 
price of that horse, and I will not increase the debt. What 
a fool I was again there. Perhaps you do not remember 
that, when I agreed to buy the horse, the price was to be 
my contribution to the liquidation of these bills.” 

“ I do remember it ; but I will tell you how that was.” 

“ It does not signify. It has been all of a piece.” 

“ But listen to me. I think you would feel for me if you 
knew all that I have gone through. I pledge you my sol- 
emn word that I had no intention of asking you for the 
money when you took the horse — indeed I had not. But 


306 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


you remember that affair of Lufton’s, when he came to you 
at your hotel in London and was so angry about an out- 
standing bill.” 

“ I know that he was very unreasonable as far as I was 
concerned.” 

“ He was so ; but that makes no difference. He was re- 
solved, in his rage, to expose the whole affair ; _and I saw 
that, if he did so, it would be most injurious to you, seeing 
that you had just accepted your stall at Barchester.” Here 
the poor prebendary winced terribly. “ I moved heaven 
and earth to get up that bill. Those vultures stuck to their 
prey when they found the value which I attached to it, and 
I was forced to raise above a hundred pounds at the mo- 
ment to obtain possession of it, although every shilling ab- 
solutely due on it had long since been paid. Never in my 
life did I wish to get money, as I did to raise that hundred 
and twenty pounds ; and as I hope for mercy in my last 
moments, I did that for your sake. Lufton could not have 
injured me in that matter.” 

“But you told him that you got it for twenty-five 
pounds ?” 

“Yes, I told him so. I was obliged to tell him that, or 
I should have apparently condemned myself by showing 
how anxious I was to get it. And you know I could not 
have explained all this before him and you. You would 
have thrown up the stall in disgust.” 

Would that he had! That was Mark’s wish now — his 
futile wish. In what a slough of despond had he come to 
wallow in consequence of his folly on that night at Gath- 
erum Castle ! He had then done a silly thing, and was he 
now to rue it by almost to^l ruin ? He was sickened also 
with all these lies. His very soul was dismayed by the dirt 
through which he w^as forced to wade. He had become 
unconsciously connected with the lowest dregs of mankind, 
and would have to see his name mingled with theirs in the 
daily newspapers. And for what had he done this ? Why 
had he thus filed his mind and made himself a disgrace to 
his cloth ? In order that he might befriend such a one as 
Mr. Sowerby ! 

“Well,” continued Sowerby, “I did get the money, but 
you would hardly believe the rigor of the pledge which 
was exacted from me for repayment. I got it from Harold 
Smith, and never, in my worst straits, will I again look to 


PRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


3G7 


him for assistance. I borrowed it only for a fortnight; 
and, in order that I might repay it, I was obliged to ask 
you for the price of the horse. Mark, it was on your be- 
half that I did all this — indeed it was.” 

“ And now I am to repay you for your kindness by the 
loss of all that I have in the world.” 

“ If you will put the aflairs into the hands of Mr. For- 
rest, nothing need be touched — not a hair of a horse’s 
back ; no, not though you should be obliged to pay the 
whole amount yourself gradually out of your income. You 
must execute a series of bills falling due quarterly, and 
then — ” 

“ I will execute no bill, I will put my name to no paper 
in the matter ; as to that my mind is fully made up. They 
may come and do their worst.” 

Mr. Sowerby persevered for a long time, but he was 
quite unable to move the parson from his position. He 
would do nothing toward making what Mr. Sowerby call- 
ed an arrangement, but persisted that he would remain at 
home at Framley, and that any one who had a claim upon 
him might take legal steps. 

“I shall do nothing myself,” he said; “but, if proceed- 
ings against me be taken, I shall prove that I have never 
had a shilling of the money.” And in this resolution he 
quitted the Dragon of Wantley. 

Mr. Sowerby at one time said a word as to the expedi- 
ency of borrowing that sum of money from John Robarts ; 
but as to this Mark would say nothing. Mr. Sowerby was 
not the friend with whom he now intended to hold con- 
sultation on such matters. “I am not at present prepared,” 
he said, “ to declare what I may do ; I must first see what 
steps others take;” and then he took his hat and went 
off; and, mounting his horse in the yard of the Dragon of 
Wantley — that horse which he had now so many reasons 
to dislike, he slowly rode back home. 

Many thoughts passed through his mind during that ride, 
but only one resolution obtained for itself a fixture there. 
He must now tell his wife every thing. He would not be 
so cruel as to let it remain untold until a bailiff were at 
the door, ready to walk him off to the county jail, or until 
the bed on which they slept was to be sold from under 
them. Yes, he would tell every thing — immediately, before 
his resolution could again have faded away. He got ofi* 


368 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


his horse in the yard, and, seeing his wife’s maid at the 
kitchen door, desired her to beg her mistress to come to 
him in the book-room. He would not allow one half hour 
to pass toward the waning of his purpose. If it be ordain- 
ed that a man shall drown, had he not better drown and 
have done with it ? 

Mrs. Robarts came to him in his room, reaching him in 
time to touch his arm as he entered it. 

“ Mary says you want me. I have been gardening, and 
she caught me just as I came in.” 

“ Yes, Fanny, I do want you. Sit down for a moment.” 
And, walking across the room, he placed his whip in its 
proper place. 

“ Oh, Mark, is there any thing the matter ?” 

“ Yes, dearest, yes. Sit down, Fanny ; I can talk to you 
better if you will sit.” 

But she, poor lady, did not wish to sit. He had hinted 
at some misfortune, and therefore she felt a longing to 
stand by him and cling to him. 

“ Well, there ; I will if I must ; but, Mark, do not frighten 
me. Why is your face so very wretched ?” * 

“ Fanny, I have done very wrong,” he said. “ I have 
been very foolish. I fear that I have brought upon you 
great sorrow and trouble.” And then he leaned his head 
upon his hand, and turned his face away from her. 

“ Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, my own Mark ! what is it ?” 
and then she was quickly up from her chair, and went down 
on her knees before him. “ Do not turn from me. Tell 
me, Mark ! tell me, that we may share it.” 

“ Yes, Fanny, I must tell you now, but I hardly know 
what you will think of me when you have heard it.” 

“ I will think that you are my own husband, Mark ; I 
will think that — that chiefly, whatever it may be.” And 
then she caressed his knees, and looked up in his face, and, 
getting hold of one of his hands, pressed it between her 
own. “ Even if you have been foolish, who should forgive 
you if I can not ?” 

And then he told it her all, beginning from that evening 
when Mr. Sowerby had got him into his bedroom, and go- 
ing on gradually, now about the bills, and now about the 
horses, till his poor wife was utterly lost in the complexity 
of the accounts. She could by no means follow him in the 
details of his story, nor could she quite sympathize with 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


369 


him in his indignation against Mr. Sowerby, seeing that she 
did not comprehend at all the nature of the renewing of a 
bill. The only part to her of importance in the matter 
was the amount of money which her husband would be 
called upon to pay — that and her strong hope, which was 
already a conviction, that he would never again incur such 
debts. 

“ And how much is it, dearest, altogether ?” 

“ These men claim nine hundred pounds of me.” 

‘‘ Oh, dear ! that is a terrible sum.” 

“ And then there is the hundred and fifty which I have 
borrowed from the bank — the price of the horse, you know ; 
and there are some other debts — not a great deal, I think ; 
but people will now look for every shilling that is due to 
them. If I have to pay it all, it will be twelve or thirteen 
hundred pounds.” 

“That will bo as much as a year’s income, Mark, even 
with the stall.” 

• That was the only word of reproach she said, if that 
could be called a reproach. 

“Yes,” he said; “and it is claimed by men who will 
have no pity in exacting it at any sacrifice, if they have the 
power. And to think that I should have incurred all this 
debt without having received any thing for it. Oh, Fanny, 
Avhat will you think of me?” 

But she SAVore to him that she would think nothing of 
it — that she would never bear it in her mind against him 
— that it could have no eifect in lessening her trust in him. 
Was he not her husband ? She was so glad she knew it, 
that she might comfort him. And she did comfort him, 
making the weight seem lighter and lighter on his shoul- 
ders as he talked of it. And such weights do thus become 
lighter. A burden that will crush a single pair of shoul- 
ders will, when equally divided — when shared by two, 
each of whom is willing to take the heavier part — become 
light as a feather. Is not that sharing of the mind’s bur- 
dens one of the chief purposes for which man wants a wife ? 
For there is no folly so great as keeping one’s sorrows hid- 
den. 

And this wife cheerfully, gladly, thankfully took her 
share. To endure with her lord all her lord’s troubles was 
easy to her ; it was the work to which she had pledged 
herself. But to have thought that her lord had troubles 
Q 2 


870 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


not communicated to her — that would have been to her 
the one thing not to be borne. 

And then they discussed their plans — what mode of es- 
cape they might have out of this terrible money difficulty. 
Like a true woman, Mrs. Robarts proposed at once to aban- 
don all superfluities. They would sell all their horses; 
they would not sell their cows, but would sell the butter 
that came from them ; they would sell the pony carriage, 
and get rid of the groom. That the footman must go was 
so much a matter of course that it was hardly mentioned. 
But then, as to that house at Barchester, the dignifled pre- 
bendal mansion in the Close, might they not be allowed to 
leave it unoccupied for one year longer — perhaps to let it? 
The world, of course, must know of their misfortune ; but 
if that misfortune was faced bravely, the world would be 
less bitter in its condemnation. And then, above all things, 
every thing must be told to Lady Lufton. 

“You may, at any rate, believe this, Fanny,” said he, 
‘‘ that for no consideration which can be offered to me will 
I ever put my name to another bill.” 

The kiss with which she thanked him for this was as 
warm and generous as though he had brought to her that 
day news of the brightest ; and when he sat, as he did that 
evening, discussing it all not only with his wife, but with 
Lucy, he wondered how it was that his troubles were now 
so light. 

Whether or no a man should have his own private pleas- 
ures, I will not now say, but it never can be worth his 
while to keep his sorrows private. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

LADY LUFTON IS TAKEN BY SUEPEISE. 

Loed Lufton, as he returned to town, found some dif- 
ficulty in resolving what step he would next take. Some- 
times, for a minute or two, he was half inclined to think — 
or rather to say to himself that Lucy was perhaps not 
worth the trouble, which she threw in his way. He loved 
her very dearly, and would willingly make her his w’ife, he 
thought or said at such moments, but — Such moments, 
however, were only moments. A man in love seldom 
loves less because his love becomes difficult. And thus. 


FIIAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


371 


Avlien those moments were over, he would determine to tell 
his mother at once, and urge her to signify her consent to 
Miss Robarts. That she would not be quite pleased he 
knew ; but if he were firm enough to show that he had a 
Avill of his own in this matter, she would probably not 
gainsay him. lie would not ask this humbly, as a favor, 
but request her ladyship to go through the ceremony as 
though it were one of those motherly duties which she, as 
a good mother, could not hesitate to perform on behalf of 
her son. Such was the final resolve with which he reached 
his chambers in the Albany. 

On the next day he did not see his mother. It would 
be well, he thought, to have his interview with her im- 
mediately before he started for Norway, so that there 
might be no repetition of it ; and it was on the day before 
he did start that he made his communication, having in- 
vited himself to breakfast in Brook Street on the oc- 
casion, 

“Mother,” he said, quite abruptly, throwing himself into 
one of the dining-room arm-chairs, “ I have a thing to tell 
you.” 

His mother at once knew that the thing was important, 
and with her own peculiar motherly instinct imagined that 
the question to be discussed had reference to matrimony. 
Had her son desired to speak to her about money, his tone 
and look would have been different, as would also have 
been the case — in a difierent way — had he entertained any 
thought of a pilgrimage to Pekin, or a prolonged fishing 
excursion to the Hudson Bay territories. 

“A thing, Ludovic ! well, I am quite at liberty.” 

“ I want to know what you think of Lucy Robarts ?” 

Lady Lufton became pale and frightened, and the blood 
ran cold to her heart.' She had feared more than rejoiced 
in conceiving that her son was about to talk of love, but 
she had feared nothing so bad as this. “What do I think 
of Lucy Robarts ?” she said, repeating her son’s words in a 
tone of evident dismay. 

“Yes, mother; you have said once or twice lately that 
you thought I ought to marry, and I am beginning to 
think so too. You selected one clergyman’s daughter for 
me, but that lady is going to do much better with her- 
self—” 

“ Indeed she is not,” said Lady Lufton, sharply. 


372 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ And therefore I rather think I shall select for myself 
another clergyman’s sister. You don’t dislike Miss Ro- 
barts, I hope ?” 

“Oh, Ludovic !” 

It was alhthat Lady Lufton could say at the spur of the 
moment. 

“ Is there any harm in her ? Have you any objection to 
her ? Is there any thing about her that makes her unfit to 
be my wife ?” 

For a moment or two Lady Lufton sat silent, collecting 
her thoughts. She thought that there was very great ob- 
jection to Lucy Robarts, regarding her as the possible fu- 
ture Lady Lufton. She could hardly have stated all her 
reasons, but they .were very cogent. Lucy Robarts had, 
in her eyes, neither beauty, nor style, nor manner, nor even 
the education which was desirable. Lady Lufton was not 
herself a worldly ^voman. She was almost as far removed 
from being so as a woman could be in her position. But, 
nevertheless, there were certain Avorldly attributes which 
she regarded as essential to the character of any young 
lady who might be considered fit to take the place which 
she herself had so long filled. It was her desire in looking 
for a wife for her son to combine these with certain moral 
excellences which she regarded as equally essential. Lucy 
Robarts might have the moral excellences, or she might 
not ; but as to the other attributes Lady Lufton regarded 
her as altogether deficient. She could never look like a 
Lady Lufton, or carry herself in the county as a Lady Luf- 
ton should do. She had not that quiet personal demeanor 
— that dignity of repose which Lady Lufton loved to look 
upon in a young married woman of rank. Lucy, she 
Avould have said, could be nobody in a room except by dint 
of her tongue, whereas Griselda Grantly would have held 
her peace for a whole evening, and yet would have im- 
pressed every body by the majesty of her presence. Then, 
again, Lucy had no money — and, again, Lucy was only the 
sister of her own parish clergyman. People are rarely 
prophets in their own country, and Lucy was no prophet 
.at Framley ; she was none, at least, in the eyes of Lady 
Lufton. Once before, as may be remembered, she had had 
fears on this subject — fears, not so much for her son, whom 
she could hardly bring herself to suspect of such folly, but 
for Lucy, who might be foolish enough to fancy that the 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


373 


lord was in love with her. Alas ! alas ! her son’s question 
fell upon the poor woman at the present moment with the 
weight of a terrible blow. 

“ Is there any thing about her which makes her unfit to 
be my wife ?” 

Those were her son’s last words. 

“ Dearest Ludovic, dearest Ludovic,” and she got up and 
came over to him, “ I do think so ; I do, indeed.” 

“ Think what ?” said he, in a tone that was almost angry. 

“ I do think she is unfit to be your wife. She is not of 
that class from which I would wish to see you choose.” 

“ She is of the same class as Griselda Grantly.” 

“1^0, dearest, I think you are in error there. The 
Grantlys have moved in a different sphere of life. I think 
you must feel that they are — ” 

“Upon my word, mother, I don’t. One man is Kector 
of Plumstead, and the other is Vicar of Framley. But it 
is no goo^ arguing that. I want you to take to Lucy Ro- 
barts. I have come to you on jourpose to ask it of you as 
a favor.” 

“ Do you mean as your wife, Ludovic ?” 

“ Yes, as my wife.” 

“ Am I to understand that you are — are engaged to her?” 

“Well, I can not say that I am — not actually engaged to 
her. But you may take this for granted, that, as far as it 
lies in my power, I intend to become so. My mind is 
made up, and I certainly shall not alter it.” 

“And the young lady knows all this?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ Horrid, sly, detestable, underhand girl,” Lady Lufton 
said to herself, not being by any means brave enough to 
speak out such language before her son. What hope could 
there be if Lord Lufton had already committed himself by 
a positive offer? “And her brother, and Mrs.Robarts — 
are they aware of it ?” 

“Yes, both of them.” 

“And both approve of it?” 

“Well, I can not say that. I have not seen Mrs.Ro- 
barts, and do not know what may be her opinion. To 
speak my mind honestly about Mark, I do not think he 
does cordially approve. He is afraid of you, and would be 
desirous of knowing what you think.” 

“ I am glad, at any rate, to hear that,” said Lady Lufton, 


374 


FRxVMLEY TARSONAGE. 


gravely. “ Had he done any thing to encourage this, it 
would have been very base.” And then there was another 
short period of silence. 

Lord Lufton had determined not to explain to his moth- 
er the whole state of the case. He would not tell her that 
every thing depended on her word — that Lucy was ready 
to marry him only on condition that she, Lady Lufton, 
would desire her to do so. He would not let her know 
that every thing depended on her, according to Lucy’s 
present verdict. He had a strong disinclination to ask his 
mother’s permission to get married, and he would have to 
ask it were he to tell her the whole truth. His object was 
to make her think well of Lucy, and to induce her to be 
kind, and generous, and affectionate down at Framley. 
Then things would all turn out comfortably when he again 
visited that place, as he intended to do on his return from 
N^orway. So much he thought it possible he might effect, 
relying on his mother’s prob^able calculation that it would 
be useless for her to oppose a measure which she had no 
power of stopping by authority. But were he to tell her 
that she was to be the final judge, that every thing was to 
depend on her will, then, so thought Lord Lufton, that 
permission would in all probability be refused. 

“ Well, mother, Avhat answer do you intend to give me?” 
he said. “ My mind is positively made up. I should not 
have come to you had not that been the case. You will 
now be going down home, and I would wish you to treat 
Lucy as you yourself would wish to treat any girl to whom 
you knew that I was engaged.” 

“ But you say that you are not engaged.” 

“FTo, I am not; but I have made my offer to her, and 
I have not been rejected. She has confessed that she — 
loves me, not to myself, but to her brother. Under these 
circumstances, may I count upon your obliging me ?” 

There was something in his manner which almost fright- 
ened his mother, and made her think that there Avas more 
behind than was told to her. Generally speaking, his man- 
ner was open, gentle, and unguarded ; but noAv he spoke 
as though he had prepared his Avords, and Avas resolved on 
being harsh as well as obstinate. 

“ I am so much taken by surprise, Ludovic, that I can 
hardly give you an ansAver. If you ask me Avhether I ap- 
prove of such a marriage, I must say that I do not ; I think 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


375 


that you would be throwing yourself away in marrying 
Miss Robarts.” 

“ That is because you do not know her.” 

“ May it not be possible that I know her better than you 
do, dear Ludovic? You have been flirting with her — ” 

“ I hate that word ; it always sounds to me to be 
vulgar.” 

“ I will say making love to her, if you like it better ; 
and gentlemen under these circumstances will sometimes 
become infatuated.” 

“ You would not have a man marry a girl without mak- 
ing love to her. The fact is, mother, that your tastes and 
mine are not exactly the same; you like silent beauty, 
whereas I like talking beauty, and then — ” 

“ Do you call Miss Robarts beautiful ?” 

“Yes, I do, very beautiful; she has the beauty that I 
admire. Good-by now, mother ; I shall not see you again 
before I start. It will be no use writing, as I shall be 
away so short a time, and I don’t quite know where we 
shall be. I shall come down to Framley immediately I 
return, and shall learn from you how the land lies. I have 
told you my wishes, and you will consider how far you 
think it right to fall in with them.” He then kissed her, 
and, without -vy^aiting for her reply, he took his leave. 

Poor Lady Lufton, when she was left to herself, felt that 
her head was going round and round. Was this to be the 
end of all her amMtion — of all her love for her son ? and 
was this to be the result of all her kindness to the Ro- 
barts’s ? She almost hated Mark Robarts as she reflected 
that she had been the means of bringing him and his sister 
to Framley. She thought over all his sins, his absences 
from the parish, his visit to Gatherum Castle, his dealings 
with reference to that farm which was to have been sold, his 
hunting, and then his acceptance of that stall, given, as she 
had been told, through the Omnium interest. How could 
she love him at such a moment as this ? And then she 
thought of his wife. Could it be possible that Fanny Ro- 
barts, her own friend Fanny, would be so untrue to her as 
to lend any assistance to such a marriage as this — as not 
to use all her power in preventing it? She had spoken to 
Fanny on this very subject, not fearing for her son, but 
with a general idea of the impropriety of intimacies be- 
tween such girls as Lucy and such men as Lord Lufton, 


37G 


FKAMLEY PAllSONAGE. 


and then Fanny had agreed with her. Could it he possi- 
ble that even she must be regarded as an enemy ? 

And then, by degrees, Lady Lufton began to reflect what 
steps she had better take. In the first place, should she 
give in at once, and consent to the marriage ? The only 
thing quite certain to her was this, that life would not be 
worth having if she were forced into a permanent quarrel 
with her son. Such an event would probably kill her. 
When she read of quarrels in other noble families — and the 
accounts of such quarrels will sometimes, unfortunately, 
force themselves upon the attention of unwilling readers — 
she would hug herself with a spirit that Avas almost Phari- 
saical, reflecting that her destiny Avas not like that of oth- 
ers. Such quarrels and hatreds betAveen fathers and daugh- 
ters, and mothers and sons, Avere in her eyes disreputable 
to all the persons concerned. She had lived happily Avith 
her husband, comfortably Avith her neighbors, respectably 
Avith the Avorld, and, aboA’^e all things, affectionately Avith 
her children. She spoke every where of Lord Lufton as 
though he Avere nearly perfect, and in so speaking she had 
not belied her convictions. Under these circumstances, 
AA^ould not any marriage be better than a quarrel? 

But then, again, hoAV much of the pride of her daily life 
would be destroyed by such a match as that j And might 
it not be Avithin her poAver to jArevent it Avithout any quar- 
rel? That her son Avould be sick of such a chit as Lucy 
before he had been married to her six months — of that 
Lady Lufton entertained no doubt, and therefore her con- 
science Avould not be disquieted in disturbing the consum- 
mation of an arrangement so pernicious. It Avas evident 
that the matter was not considered as settled even by her 
son, and also evident that he regarded the matter as being 
in some Avay dependent on his mother’s consent. On the 
Avhole, might it not be better for her — better for them all, 
that she should think Avholly of her duty, and not of the 
disagreeable results to Avhich that duty might possibly 
lead ? It could not be her duty to accede to such an alli- 
ance, and therefore she Avould do her best to prevent it. 
Such, at least, should be her attempt in the first instance. 

Having so decided, she next resolved on her course of 
action. Immediately on her arrival at Framley, she Avould 
send for Lucy RobartS, and use all her eloquence — and 
perhaps also a little of that stern dignity for Avhich she 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


377 


was so remarkable — in explaining to that young lady how 
very wicked it was on her part to think of forcing herself 
into such a family as that of the Luftons. She would ex- 
plain to Lucy that no happiness could come of it; that 
people placed by misfortune above their sphere are always 
miserable ; and, in short, make use of all those excellent 
moral lessons wliich are so customary on such occasions. 
The morality might, perhaps, be thrown away ; but -Lady 
Lufton depended much on her dignified sternness. And 
then, having so resolved, she prepared for her journey 
home. 

Very little had been said at Framley Parsonage about 
Lord Lufton’s oflTer after the departure of that gentleman 
— very little, at least, in Lucy’s presence. That the parson 
and his wife should talk about it between themselves was 
a matter of course ; but very few words were spoken on 
the matter either by or to Lucy. She was left to her own 
thoughts, and possibly to her own hopes. 

And then other matters came up at Framley which turn- 
ed the current of interest into other tracks. In the first 
place, there was the visit made by Mr. Sowerby to the 
Dragon of Wantley, and the consequent revelation made 
by Mark Robarts to his wife. And while that latter sub- 
ject was yet new, before Fanny and Lucy had as yet made 
up their minds as to all the little economies which might 
be practiced in the household without serious detriment to 
the master’s comfort, news reached them that Mrs. Craw- 
ley of Hogglestock had been stricken with fever. Nothing 
of the kind could well be more dreadful than this. To 
those who knew the family, it seemed impossible that their 
most ordinary wants could be supplied if that courageous 
head were even for a day laid low ; and then the poverty 
of poor Mr. Crawley was such that the sad necessities of a 
sick-bed could hardly be supplied without assistance. 

“ I will go over at once,” said Fanny. 

“ My dear !” said her husband. “ It is typhus, and you 
must first think of the children. I will go.” 

“ What on earth could you do, Mark ?” said his wife. 
“Men on such occasions are almost worse than useless; 
and then they are so much more liable to infection.” 

“ I have no children, nor am I a man,” said Lucy, smiling, 
“ for both of which exemptions I am thankful. I will go, 
and when I come back I will keep clear of the bairns.” 


878 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


So it was settled, and Lucy started in the pony-carriage, 
carrying with her such things from the Parsonage store- 
house as were thought to be suitable to the wants of the 
sick lady at Hogglestock. When she arrived there she 
made her way into the house, finding the door open, and 
not being able to obtain the assistance of the servant-girl 
in ushering her in. In the parlor she found Grace Craw- 
ley, the eldest child, sitting demurely in her mother’s chair 
nursing an infant. She, Grace herself, was still a young 
child, but not the less, on this occasion of well-understood 
sorrow, did she go through her task not only with zeal, 
but almost with solemnity. Her brother, a boy of six 
years old, was with her, and he had the care of another 
baby. There they sat in a cluster, quiet, grave, and silent, 
attending on themselves, because it had been willed by fate 
that no one else should attend on them. 

“ How is your mamma, dear Grace ?” said Lucy, walk- 
ing up to her and holding out her hand. 

“ Poor mamma is very ill indeed,” said Grace. 

“ And papa is very unhappy,” said Bobby, the boy. 

“I can’t get up because of baby,” said Grace; “but 
Bobby can go and call papa out.” 

“ I will knock at the door,” said Lucy ; and, so saying, 
she walked up to the bedroom door, and tapped against it 
lightly. She repeated this for the third time before she 
was summoned in by a low hoarse voice, and then, on en- 
tering, she saw Mr. Crawley standing by the bedside with 
a book in his hand. He looked at her uncomfortably, in a 
manner which seemed to show that he was annoyed by 
this intrusion, and Lucy was aware that she had disturbed 
him while at prayers by the bedside of his wife. He came 
across the room, however, and shook hands with her, and 
answered her inquiries in his ordinary grave and solemn 
voice. 

“ Mrs. Crawley is very ill,” he said, “ very ill. God has 
stricken us heavily, but His will be done. But you had 
better not go to her. Miss Robarts. It is typhus.” 

The caution, however, was too late, for Lucy was already 
by the bedside, and had taken the hand of the sick woman, 
which had been extended on the coverlet to greet her. 
“Dear Miss Robarts,” said a weak voice, “this is very 
good of you, but it makes me unhappy to see you here.” 

Lucy lost no time in taking sundry matters into her own 


FEAMLEY FAESOXAGE. 


Sid 

hands, and ascertaining what was most wanted in that 
wretched household. For it was wretched enough. Their 
only servant, a girl of sixteen, had been taken away by her 
mother as soon as it became known that Mrs. Crawley was 
ill with fever. The poor mother, to give her her due, had 
promised to come down morning and evening herself, to 
do such work as might be done in an hour or so ; but she 
could not, she said, leave her child to catch the fever. And 
now, at the period of Lucy’s visit, no step had been taken 
to procure a nurse, Mr. Crawley having resolved to take 
upon himself the duties of that position. In his absolute 
ignorance of all sanatory measures, he had thrown himself 
on his knees to pray ; and if prayers — true prayers — might 
succor his poor wife, of such succor she might be confident. 
Lucy, however, thought that other aid also was wanting to 
her. 

“ If you can do any thing for us,” said Mrs. Crawley, 
“let it be for the poor children.” 

“ I will have them all moved from this till you are bet- 
ter,” said Lucy, boldly. 

“Moved!” said Mr. Crawley, who even now, even in his 
j)resent strait, felt a repugnance to the idea that any one 
should relieve, him of any portion of his burden. 

“ Yes,” said Lucy ; “ I am sure it will be better that you 
should lose them for a week or two, till Mrs. Crawley may 
be able to leave her room.” 

“But where are they to go?” said he, very gloomily. 

As to this Lucy was not as yet able to say any thing. 
Indeed, when she left Framley Parsonage there had been 
no time for discussion. She would go back and talk it all 
over with Fanny, and find out in what way the children 
might be best put out of danger. Why should they not 
all be harbored at the Parsonage as soon as assurance could 
be felt that they were not tainted with the poison of the 
fever ? An Englisl>lady of the right sort will do all things 
but one for a sick neighbor, but for no^ neighbor will she 
wittingly admit contagious sickness within the precincts 
of her own nursery. 

Lucy unloaded her jellies and her febrifuges, Mr. Craw- 
ley frowning at her bitterly the while. It had come to this 
with him, that food had been brought into^ his house, as an 
act of charity, in his very presence, and in his heart of hearts 
he disliked Lucy Robarts in that she had brought it. He 


380 


FEAMLEY PAESOXAGE. 


could not cause the jars and the pots to be replaced in the 
pony-carriage, as he would have done had the position of 
his wife been different. In her state it would have been 
barbarous to refuse them, and barbarous also to have cre- 
ated the fracas of a refusal ; but each parcel that was in- 
troduced was an additional weight laid on the sore withers 
of his pride, till the total burden became almost intolera- 
ble. All this his wife saw and recognized even in her ill- 
ness, and did make some slight ineffectual efforts to give 
him ease ; but Lucy in her new power was ruthless, and 
the chicken to make the chicken-broth was taken out of 
the basket under his very nose. 

But Lucy did not remain long. She had made up her 
mind what it behooved her to do herself, and she was soon 
ready to return to Framley. “ I shall be back again, Mr. 
Crawley,” she said, “ probably this evening, and I shall stay 
with her till she is better.” “Nurses don’t w^ant rooms,” 
she went on to say, when Mr. Crawley muttered something 
as to there being no bedchamber. “ I shall make up some 
sort of a litter near her ; you’ll see that I shall be very 
snug.” And then she got into the pony-chaise and drove 
herself home. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE STOEY OF KING COPHETUA. 

Lucy, as she drove herself home, had much as to which 
it was necessary that she should arouse her thoughts. That 
she would go back and nurse Mrs. Crawley through her 
fever she was resolved. She was free agent enough to 
take so much on herself, and to feel sure that she could 
carry it through. But how was she to redeem her prom- 
ise about the children? Twenty plans ran through her 
mind as to the farm-houses in which they might be placed, 
or cottages which might be hired for them ; but all these 
entailed the want of money ; and at the present moment, 
were not all the inhabitants* of the Parsonage pledged to a 
dire economy ? This use of the pony-carriage would have 
been illicit under any circumstances less pressing than the 
present, for it had been decided that the carriage, and 
even poor Puck himself, should be sold. She had, how- 
ever, given her promise about the children, and, tliough 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


381 


her own stock of money was very low, that promise should 
_ be redeemed. 

When she reached the Parsonage she was of course full 
of her schemes, but she found that another subject of in- 
terest had come up in her absence, which prevented her 
from obtaining the undivided attention of her sister-in-law 
to her present plans. Lady Lufton had returned that day, 
and immediately on her return had sent up a note address- 
ed to Miss Lucy Pobarts, which note was in Fanny’s hands 
when Lucy stepped out of the pony-carriage. The servant 
who brought it had asked for an answer, and a verbal an- 
swer had been sent, saying that Miss Pobarts was away 
from home, and would herself send a reply when she re- 
turned. It can not be denied that the color came to Lucy’s 
face, and that her hand trembled when she took the note 
from Fanny in the drawing-room. Every thing in the 
world to her might depend on what that note contained, 
and yet she did not open it at once, but stood wdth it in 
her hand, and, when Fanny pressed her on the subject, still 
endeavored to bring back the conversation to the subject 
of Mrs. Crawley. 

But yet her mind 'was intent on the letter, and she had 
already augured ill from the handwriting and even from 
the words of the address. Had Lady Lufton intended to 
be propitious, she would have directed her letter to Miss 
Pobarts, without the Christian name ; so at least argued 
Lucy — quite unconsciously, as one does argue in such mat- 
ters. One forms half the conclusions of one’s life without 
any distinct knowdedge that the premises have even passed 
through one’s mind. 

They were now alone together, as Mark was out. 

“Won’t you open her letter?” said Mrs. Pobarts. 

“ Yes, immediately ; but, Fanny, I must speak to you 
about Mrs. Crawley first. I must go back there this even- 
ing, and stay there ; I have promised to do so, and shall 
certainly keep my promise. I have promised also that the 
children shall be taken away, and we must arrange about 
that. It is dreadful, the state she is in. There is no one 
to see to her but Mr. Crawley, and the children are alto- 
gether *left to themselves.” 

“ Do you mean that you are going back to stay ?” 

“ Yes, certainly ; I have made a distinct promise that I 
would do so. And about the children — could not you 


382 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


manage for the children, Fanny — not, perhaps, in the house 
— at least not at first, perhaps And yet, during all the 
time that she was thus speaking and pleading for the 
Crawleys, she was endeavoring to imagine what might be 
the contents of that letter which she held between her 
fingers. 

“And is she so very ill?” asked Mrs. Robarts. 

“ I can not say how ill she may be, except this, that she 
certainly has typhus fever. They have had some doctor, 
or doctor’s assistant from Sil verb ridge, but it seems to me 
that they are greatly in want of better advice.” 

“But, Lucy, will you not read your letter? It is aston- 
ishing to me that you should be so indifierent about it.” 

Lucy was any thing but indifferent, and now did 2:)roceed 
to tear the envelope. The note was very short, and ran in 
these words: 

“My dear Miss IiObarts, — I am particularly anxious to see you, 
and shall feel much obliged to you if you can step over to me here, at 
Framley Court. I must apologize for taking this liberty with you, but 
you will probably feel that an interview here would suit us both better 
than one at the Parsonage. Truly yours, M. Lufton.” 

“ There ; I am in for it now,” said Lucy, handing the 
note over to Mrs. Robarts. “ I shall have to be talked to 
as never poor girl was talked to before; and when one 
thinks of Avhat I have done, it is hard.” 

“ Yes, and of what you have not done.” 

“ Exactly ; and of what I have not done. But I sujipose 
I must go,” and she proceeded to re-tic the strings of her 
bonnet, which she had loosened. 

“ Bo you mean that you are going over at once ?” 

“ Yes, immediately. Why not ? it will be better to have 
it over, and then I can go to the Crawleys. But, Fanny, 
the pity of it is that I know it all as well as though it had 
been already spoken ; and what good can there be in my 
having to endure it ? • Can’t you fancy the tone in which 
she will explain to me the conventional inconveniences 
which arose when King Cophetua would marry the beg- 
gar’s daughter ? how she will explain what Griselda went 
through — not the archdeacon’s daughter, but the other 
Griselda ?” 

“ But it all came right with her.” 

“Yes ; but then I am not Griselda, and she will explain 
how it Avould certainly all go wrong with me. But what’s 


FBAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


380 - 


the good when I knoAv it all beforehand ? Have I not de- 
sired King Cophetua to take himself and sceptre else- 
where ?” 

And then she started, having first said another word or 
two about the Crawley children, and obtained a promise 
of Puck and the pony-carriage for the afternoon. It was 
also almost agreed that Puck, on his return to Framley, 
should bring back the four children with him ; but on this 
subject it was necessary that Mark should be consulted. 
The present scheme was to prepare for them a room out- 
side the house, once the dairy, at present occupied by the 
groom and his wife, and to bring them into the house as 
soon as it was manifest that there was no danger from in- 
fection. But all this was to be matter for deliberation. 

Fanny wanted her to send over a note, in reply to Lady 
Lufton’s, as harbinger of her coming ; but Lucy marched 
off, hardly answering this proposition. 

“ What’s the use of such a deal of ceremony ?” she said. 
“ I know she’s at home ; and if she is not, I shall only lose 
ten minutes in going.” And so she went, and on reaching 
the door of Framley Court house found that her ladyship 
was at home. Her heart almost came to her mouth as she 
was told so, and then, in two minutes’ time, she found her- 
self in the little room up stairs. In that little room wo 
found ourselves once before — you and I, O my reader — 
but Lucy had never before visited that hallowed precinct. 
There was something in its air calculated to inspire awe in 
those who first saw Lady Lufton sitting bolt upright in the 
cane-bottomed arm-chair, which she always occupied when 
at work at her books and papers, and this she knew when 
she determined to receive Lucy in that apartment. But 
there was there another arm-chair — an easy, cozy chair, 
which stood by the fireside ; and for those who had caught 
Lady Lufton napping in that chair of an afternoon, some 
of this awe had perhaps been dissipated. 

“ Miss Hobarts,” she said, not rising from her chair, but 
holding ou,t her hand to her visitor, “I am much obliged 
to you for having come over to me here. You no doubt 
are aware of the subject on which I wish to speak to you, 
and will agree with me that it is better .that we should 
meet here than over at the Parsonage.” 

In answer to which Lucy merely bowed her head, and 
took her seat on the chair which had been prepared for her. 


- 384 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ My son,” continued her ladyship, “ has spoken to me 
on the subject of — I think I understand. Miss Robarts, 
that there has been no engagement between you and him ?” 

“None whatever,” said Lucy. “He made me an offer 
and I refused him.” This she said very sharply — more so, 
undoubtedly, than the circumstances required, and with a 
brusqueness that was injudicious as well as uncourteous. 
But at the moment she was thinking of her own position 
with reference to Lady Lufton — not to Lord Lufton, and 
of her feelings with reference to the lady — not to the gen- 
tleman. 

“ Oh,” said Lady Lufton, a little startled by the manner 
of the communication. “Then I am to understand that 
there is nothing now going on between you and my son — 
that the whole aftair is over ?” 

“ That depends entirely uj^on you.” 

“ On me ! does it ?” 

“I do not know wdiat your son may have told you. 
Lady Lufton. For myself, I do not care to have any se- 
crets from you in this matter ; and as he has spoken to you 
about it, I suppose that such is his wish also. Am I i-ight 
in presuming that he has spoken to you on the subject?” 

“ Yes, he has ; and it is for that reason that I haVe taken 
the liberty of sending for you.” 

“And may I ask what he has told you? I mean, of 
course, as regards myself,” said Lucy. 

Lady Lufton, before she answered this question, began 
to reflect that the young lady was taking too much of the 
initiative in this conversation, and was, in fact, playing the 
game in her own fashion, which was not at all in accord- 
ance with those motives which had induced Lady Lufton 
to send for her. 

“ He has told me that he made you an offer of marriage,” 
rejflied Lady Lufton ; “ a matter which, of course, is very 
serious to me, as his mother ; and I have thought, there- 
fore, that I had better see you, and appeal to your own 
good sense and judgment, and high feeling. Of course 
you are aware — ” 

Now was coming the lecture to be illustrated by King 
Cophetua and Griselda, as Lucy had suggested to Mrs. 
Robarts ; but she succeeded in stopping it for a while. 

“ And did Lord Lufton tell you Avhat was my answer ?” 

“Not in words. But you yourself now say that you 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


385 


refused him, and I must express my admiration for your 
good—” 

“Wait half a moment, Lady Lufton. Your son did 
make me an offer. He made it to me in person, up at the 
Parsonage, and I then refused him — foolishly, as I now be- 
lieve, for I dearly love him. But I did so from a mixture 
of feelings which I need not, perhaps, explain ; that most 
prominent, no doubt, was a fear of your displeasure. And 
then he came again, not to me, but to my brother, and 
urged his suit to him. Nothing can have been kinder to 
me, more noble, more loving, more generous, than his con- 
duct. At first I thought, when he was si^eaking to my- 
self, that he was led on thoughtlessly to say all that he did 
say. I did not trust his love, though I saw that he did 
trust it himself. But I could not but trust it when he 
came again — to my brother, and made his proposal to him. 
I don’t know whether you will understand me. Lady Luf- 
ton ; but a girl placed as I am feels ten times more assur- 
ance in such a tender of affection as that, than in one made 
to herself, at the spur of the moment, perhaps. And then 
you must 'remember that I — I myself — I loved him from 
the first. I was foolish enough to think that I could know 
him and not love him.” 

“I saw all that going on,” said Lady Li fton, with a cer- 
tain assumption of wisdom about her, “and took stej^s 
which I hoped would have put a stop to it in time.” 

“ Every body saw it. It was a matter of course,” said 
Lucy, destroying her ladyship’s wisdom at a blow. “ W ell, 
I did learn to love him, not meaning to do so ; and I do 
love him with all my heart. It is no use my striving to 
think that I do not ; and I could stand with him at the 
altar to-morrow and give him my hand, feeling that I was 
doing my duty by him, as a woman should do. And now 
lie has told you of his love, and I believe in that as I do in 
my own — ” And then for a moment she paused. 

“But, my dear Miss Robarts — ” began Lady Lufton. 

Lucy, however, had now worked herself up into a con- 
dition of power, and would not allow her ladyship to inter- 
rupt her in her speech. 

“ I beg your pardon, Lady Lufton ; I shall have done di- 
rectly, and then I will hear you. And so my brother came 
to me, not urging this suit, expressing no wish for such a 
marriage, but allowing me to judge for myself, and pro- 

R 


386 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


posing that I should see your son again on the following 
morning. Had I done so, I could not but have accepted 
him. Think of it, Lady Lufton. How could I have done 
other than accept him, seeing that in my heart I had ac- 
cepted his love already ?” 

“Well?” said Lady Lufton, not wishing now to put in 
any speech of h^r own. 

“ I did not see him — I refused to do so — because I w^as 
a coward. I could not endure to come into this house as 
your son’s wife, and be coldly looked on by your son’s 
mother. Much as I loved him, much as I do love him, 
dearly as I prize the generous offer which he came down 
here to repeat to me, I could not live with him to be made 
the object of your scorn. I sent him word, therefore, that 
I would have him wdien you w^ould ask me, and not be- 
fore.” 

And then, having thus pleaded her cause, and pleaded as 
she believed the cause of her lover also, she ceased from 
speaking, and prepared herself to listen to the story of 
King Cophetua. 

But Lady Lufton felt considerable difficulty in* commenc- 
ing her speech. In the first place, she "was by no means a 
hard-hearted or a selfish woman ; and were it not that her 
own son was concerned, and all the- glory which was re- 
flected upon her from her son, her sympathies would have 
been given to Lucy Robarts. As it was, she did sympa- 
thize with her, and admire her, and to a certain extent like 
her. She began also to understand what it was that had 
brought about her son’s love, and to feel that but for cer- 
tain unfortunate concomitant circumstances the girl before 
her might have made a fitting Lady Lufton. Lucy had 
grown iDigger in her eyes while sitting there and talking, 
and had lost much of that missish want of importance — 
that lack of social weight -which Lady Lufton in her own 
opinion had always imputed to her. A girl that could thus 
speak up and explain her own position now, would be able 
to speak up and explain her own, and perhaps some other 
positions, at any future time. 

But not for all, or any of these reasons did Lady Lufton 
think of giving way. The power of making or marring 
this marriage was placed in her hands, as was very fitting, 
and that power it behooved her to use, as best she might 
use ik to her son’s advantage. Much as she might admire 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


387 


Lucy, slie could not sacrifice her son to that admiration. 
The unfortunate concomitant circumstances still remained, 
and were of sufficient force, as she thought, to make such a 
marriage inexpedient. Lucy was the sister of a gentleman, 
who by his peculiar position as parish clergyman of Fram- 
ley was unfitted to be the brother-in-law of the owner of 
Framley. Nobody liked clergymen better than Lady Luf- 

ton, or Avas more Avilling to live Avith them on terms of af- 
fectionate intimacy, but she could not get over the feeling 
that the clergyman of her OAvn parish — or of her son’s — 
Avas a part of her OAvn establishment, of her OAvn appanage 
— or of his — and that it could not be well that Lord Luf- 
ton should marry among his own — dependents. Lady Luf- 
ton Avould not have used the word, but she did think it. 
And then, too, Lucy’s education had been so deficient. She 
had had no one about her in early life accustomed to the 
ways of — of Avhat shall I say, Avithout making Lady Luf- 
ton appear more worldly than she Avas ? Lucy’s Avants in 
this respect, not to be defined in Avords, had been exempli- 
fied by the very Avay in which she had just noAV stated her 
case. She had shown talent, good temper, and sound judg- 
ment ; but there had been no quiet, no repose about her. 
The species of power in young ladies Avhich Lady Lufton 
most admired Avas the vis inertim belonging to beautiful 
and dignified reticence ; of this poor Lucy had none. Then, 

too, she had no fortune, which, though a minor evil, was an 
evil ; and she had no birth, in the high-life sense of the 
Avord, which Avas a greater evil. And then, though her 
eyes had sparkled when she confessed her love. Lady Luf- 
ton was not prepared to admit that she Avas possessed of 
positive beauty. Such Avere the unfortunate concomitant 
circumstances which still induced Lady Lufton to resolve 
that the match must be marred. 

But the performance of her part in this play Avas much 
more difficult than she had imagined, and she found her- 
self obliged to sit silent for a minute or two, during Avhich, 
hoAvever, Miss Robarts made no attempt at farther speech. 

“ I am greatly struck,” Lady Lufton said at last, “ by the 
excellent sense you have displayed in the Avhole of this af- 
fair ; and you must alloAV me to say. Miss Robarts, that I. 
now regard you Avith very different feelings from those 
which I entertained Avhen I left London.” IJpon this Lucy 
boAved her head, slightly but very stiffly, acknowledging 


388 


FEAiMLEY PAESONAGE. 


rather the former censure implied than the present eulogium 
expressed. 

“ But my feelings,” continued Lady Lufton, “ my strong- 
est feelings in this matter must be those of a mother. 
What might be my conduct if such a marriage did take 

f lace, I need not now consider. But I must confess that 
should think such a marriage very — very ill judged. A 
better hearted young man than Lord Lufton does not ex- 
ist, nor one with better principles, or a deeper regard for 
his word ; but he is exactly the man to be mistaken in any 
hurried outlook as to his future life. Were you and he to 
become man and wife, such a marriage would tend to the 
happiness neither of him nor of you.” 

It was clear that the whole lecture was now coming ; 
and as Lucy had openly declared her own weakness, and 
thrown all the power of decision into the hands of Lady 
Lufton, she did not see why she should endure this. 

“ We need not argue about that. Lady Lufton,” she said. 
“I have told you the only circumstances under which 1 
would marry your son ; and you, at any rate, are safe.” 

“ N"o, I was not wishing to argue,” answered Lady Luf- 
ton, almost humbly, “ but I was desirous of excusing my- 
self to you, so that you should not think me cruel in with- 
holding my consent. I wished to make you believe that I 
was doing the best for my son.” 

“ I am sure that you think you are, and therefore no ex- 
cuse is necessary.” 

“No — exactly — of course it is a matter of opinion, and 
I do think so. I can not believe that this marriage would 
make either of you happy, and therefore I should be very 
wrong to express my consent.” 

“ Then, Lady Lufton,” said Lucy, rising from her chair, 
“ I suppose we have both now said what is necessary, and 
I will therefore wish you good-by.” 

“ Good-by, Miss Robarts. I wish I could make you un- 
derstand how very highly I regard your conduct in this 
matter. It has been above all praise, and so I shall not 
hesitate to say when speaking of it to your relatives.” This 
was disagreeable enough to Lucy, who cared but little for 
any praise which Lady Lufton might express to her rela- 
tives in this matter. “ And pray,” continued Lady Luf- 
ton, “ give my best love to Mrs. Robarts, and tell her that 
I shall hope to see her over here very soon, and Mr. Ro- 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


389 


barts also. I would name a day for you all to dine, but 
perhaps it will be better that I should have a little talk 
with Fanny first.” 

Lucy muttered something, which was intended to signify 
that any such dinner-party had better not be made up with 
the intention of including her, and then took her leave. She 
had decidedly had the best of the interview, and there was 
a consciousness of this in her heart as she allowed Lady 
Lufton to shake hands with her. She had stopped her an- 
tagonist short on each occasion on which an attempt had 
been made to produce the homily which had been prepared, 
and during the interview had spoken probably three words 
for every one which her ladyship had been able to utter. 
But, nevertheless, there was a bitter feeling of disappoint- 
ment about her heart as she walked back home, and a feel- 
ing, also, that she herself had caused her own unhappiness. 
Why should she have been so romantic, and chivalrous, and 
self-sacrificing, seeing that her romance and chivalry had 
all been to his detriment as well as to hers — seeing that 
she sacrificed him as well as herself? Why should she 
have been so anxious to play into Lady Lufton’s hands? 
It was not because she thought it right, as a general social 
rule, that a lady should refuse a gentleman’s hand unless 
the gentleman’s mother were a consenting party to the 
marriage. She would have held any such doctrine as ab- 
surd. The lady, she would have said, would have had to 
look to her own family and no farther. It was not virtue, 
but cowardice which had influenced her, and she had none 
of that solace which may come to us in misfortune from a 
consciousness that our own conduct has been blameless. 
Lady Lufton had inspired her with awe, and any such feel- 
ing on her part was mean, ignoble, and unbecoming the 
spirit with which she wished to think that she was endow- 
ed. That was the accusation which she brought against 
herself, and it forbade her to feel any triumph as to the re- 
sult of her interview. 

Wh5n she reached the Parsonage, Mark was there, and 
they were of course expecting her. “Well,” said she, in 
her short, hurried manner, “ is Puck ready again ? I have 
no time to lose, and I must go and pack up a few things. 
Have you settled about the children, Fanny?” 

“Yes; I will tell you directly; but you have seen Lady 
Lufton ?” 


390 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


“ Seen her ! Oh yes, of course I have seen her. Did 
she not send for me ? and in that case it was not on the 
cards that I should disobey her.’’ 

And what did she say ?” 

“ How green you are, Mark ; and not only green, but 
impolite also, to make me repeat the story of my own dis- 
grace. Of course she told me that she did not intend that 
I should marry my lord, her son ; and of course I said that 
under those circumstances I should not think of doing such 
a thing.” 

“Lucy, I can not understand you,” said Fanny, very 
gravely. “ I am sometimes inclined to doubt whether you 
have any deep feeling in the matter or not. If you have, 
how can you bring yourself to joke about it?” 

“Well, it is singular; and sometimes I doubt myself 
whether I have. I ought to be pale, ought I not ? and very 
thin, and to go mad by degrees ? I have not the least in- 
tention of doing any thing of the kind, and, therefore, the 
matter is not worth any farther notice.” 

.“ But was she civil to you, Lucy ?” asked Mark ; “ civil 
in her manner, you know ?” 

“ Oh, uncommonly so. You will hardly believe it, but 
she actually asked me to dine. She always does, you know, 
when she wants to show her good-humor. If you’d broken 
your leg, and she wished to commiserate you, she’d ask you 
to dinner.” 

“ I suppose she meant to be kind,” said Fanny, who was 
not disposed to give up her old friend, though she was 
quite ready to fight Lucy’s battle, if there were any occa- 
sion for a battle to be fought. 

“Lucy is so perverse,” said Mark, “that it is impossible 
to learn from her what really has taken place.” 

“ Upon my word, then, you know it all as well as I can 
tell you. She asked me if Lord Lufton had made me an 
ofier. I said yes. She asked next if I meant to accept it. 
iYot without her approval, I said. And then she asked us 
all to dinner. That is exactly what took place, and* I can 
not see that I have been perverse at all.” After that she 
threw herself into a chair, and Mark and Fanny stood look- 
ing at each other. 

“Mark,” she said, after a while, “don’t be unkind to me. 
I make as little of it as I can, for all our sakes. It is bet- 
ter so, Fanny, than that I should go about moaning like a 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


391 


sick cow and then they looked at her, and saw that the 
tears were already brimming over from her eyes. 

“ Dearest, dearest Lucy,” said Fanny, immediately going 
down on her knees before her, “ I won’t be unkind to you 
again.” And then they had a great cry together. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

KIDNAPPING AT HOGGLESTOCK. 

The great cry, however, did not take long, and Lucy was 
soon in the pony-carriage again. On this occasion her 
brother volunteered to drive her, and it was now under- 
stood that he was to bring back with him all the Crawley 
children. The whole thing had been arranged ; the groom 
and his wife were to be taken into the house, and the big 
bedroom across the yard, usually occupied by them, was 
to be converted into a quarantine hospital until such time 
as it might be safe to pull down the yellow flag. They 
were about half way on their road to Hogglestock when 
they were overtaken by a man on horseback, whom, when 
he came up beside them, Mr. Robarts recognized as Dr. 
Arabin, Dean of Barchester, and head of the chapter to 
which he himself belonged. It immediately appeared that 
the dean also was going to Hogglestock, having heard of 
the misfortune that had befallen his friends there ; he had, 
he said, started as soon as the news reached him, in order 
that he might ascertain how best he might render assist- 
ance. To efiect this he had undertaken a ride of nearly 
forty miles, and explained that he did not expect to reach 
home again much before midnight. 

“ You pass by Framley ?” said Robarts. 

“ Yes, I do,” said the dean. 

“ Then ofjcourse you will dine with us as you go home ; 
you and your horse also, which will be quite as important.” 
This having been duly settled, and the proper ceremony 
of introduction having taken place between the dean and 
Lucy, they proceeded to discuss the character of Mr. 
Crawley. 

“ I have known him all my life,” said the dean, “ having 
been at school and college with him, and for years since 
that I was on term^ of the closest intimacy with him ; but 
in spite of that, I do not know how to help him in his need. 


392 


TKAMLEY P AES ON AGE. 


A prouder-hearted man I never met, or one less willing to 
share his sorrows with his friends.” 

“ I have often heard him speak of you,” «aid Mark. 

“ One of the bitterest feelings I have is that a man so 
dear to me should live so near to me, and that I should see 
so little of him. But what can I do ? He will not come 
to my house ; and when I go to his, he is angry with me 
because I wear a shovel hat and ride on horseback.” 

“ I should leave my hat and my horse at the borders of 
the last parish,” said Lucy, timidly. 

“Well — yes, certainly ; one ought not to give offense 
3ven in such matters as that ; but my coat and waistcoat 
would then be equally objectionable. I have changed — in 
outward matters I mean, and he has not. That irritates 
him ; and, unless I could be what I was in the old days, he 
will not look at me wdth the same eyes ;” and then he rode 
on, in order, as he said, that the first pang of the interview 
might be over before Robarts and his sister came upon the 
scene. 

Mr. Crawley was standing before his door, leaning over 
the little wooden railing, when the dean trotted up on his 
horse. He had come out, after hours of close watching, to 
get a few mouthfuls of the sweet summer air, and as he 
stood there he held the youngest of his children in his 
arms. The poor little baby sat there, quiet indeed, but 
hardly happy. This father, though he loved his offspring 
with an affection as intense as that which human nature 
can supply, was not gifted with the knack of making chil- 
dren fond of him ; for it is hardly more than a knack, that 
aptitude which some men have of gaining the good graces 
of the young. Such men are not always the best fathers 
or the safest guardians ; but they carry about with them a 
certain due ad me which children recognize, and which in 
three minutes upsets all the barriers between five and five- 
and-forty. But Mr. Crawley was a stern man, thinking 
ever of the souls and minds of his bairns — as a father should 
do ; and thinking also that every season was fitted for op- 
erating on these souls and minds — as, perhaps, he should 
not have done either as a father or as a teacher ; and con- 
sequently his children avoided him when the choice was 
given them, thereby adding fresh wounds to his torn heart, 
but by no means quenching any of the great love with 
which he regarded them. 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


393 


He was standing there thus with a placid little baby in 
his arms — a baby placid enough, but one that would not 
kiss him eagerly, and stroke his face with her soft little 
hands, as he would have had her do — when he saw the 
dean coming toward him. He was sharp-sighted as a lynx 
out in the open air, though now obliged to pore over his 
well-fingered books with spectacles on his nose ; and thus 
he knew his friend from a long distance, and had time to 
meditate the mode of his greeting. He too doubtless had 
come, if not with jelly and chicken, then with money and 
advice — with money and advice such as a thriving dean 
might ofier to a poor brother clergyman ; and Mr. Crawley, 
though no husband could possibly be more anxious for a 
wife’s safety than he was, immediately put his back up and 
began to bethink himself how these tenders might be re- 
jected. 

“How is she?” were the first words which the 4ean 
spoke as he pulled up his horse close to the little gate, and 
put out his hand to take that of his friend. 

“ How are you, Arabin ?” said he. “ It is very kind of 
you to come so far, seeing how much there is to keep you 
at Barch ester. I can not say that she is any better, but I 
do not know that she is worse. Sometimes I fancy that 
she is delirious, though I hardly know. At any rate, her 
mind wanders, and then after that she sleeps.” 

“But is the fever less ?” 

“ Sometimes less and sometimes more, I imagine.” 

“ And the children ?” * 

“ Poor things ! they are well as yet.” 

“ They must be taken from this, Crawley, as a matter of 
course.” 

Mr. Crawley fancied that there was a tone of authority 
in the dean’s advice, and immediately put himself into oi> 
position. 

“ I do not know how that may be ; I have not yet made 
up my mind.” 

“ But, my dear Crawley — ” 

“Providence does not admit of such removals in all 
cases,” said he. “ Among the poorer classes the children 
must endure such perils.” 

“ In many cases it is so,” said the dean, by no means in- 
clined to make an argument of it at the present moment, 
“but in this case they need not. You must allow me to 
R 2 


394 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


make arrangements for sending for them, as of course your 
time is occupied here.” 

Miss Robarts, though she had mentioned her intention 
of staying with Mrs. Crawley, had said nothing of the Fram- 
ley plan with reference to the children. 

“ What you mean is that you intend to take the burden 
off my shoulders — in fact, to pay for them. I can not al- 
low that, Arabin. They must take the lot of their father 
and their mother, as it is proper that they should do.” 

Again the dean had no inclination for arguing, and 
thought it might be well to let the question of the children 
drop for a little while. 

“And is there no nurse with her ?” said he. 

“No, no; I am seeing to her myself at the present mo- 
ment. A woman will be here just now.” 

“ What woman ?” 

“Well, her name is Mrs. Stubbs ; she lives in the parish. 
She will put the younger children to bed, and — and — but 
it’s no use troubling you with all that. There Avas a young 
lady talked of coming, but no doubt she has found it too 
inconvenient. Tt will be better as it is.” 

“ You mean Miss Robarts ; she will be here directly ; I 
passed her as I came here ;” and, as Dr. Arabin was yet 
speaking, the noise of the carriage-wheels was heard upon 
the road. 

“ I will go in now,” said Mr. Crawley, “ and see if she 
still sleeps ;” and then he entered the house, leaving the 
dean at the door still seated upon his horse. “ He will be 
afraid of the infection, and I wdll not ask him to come in,” 
said Mr. Crawley to himself. 

“ I shall seem to be prying into his poverty if I enter 
unasked,” said the dean to himself. And so he remained 
there till Puck, now acquainted with the locality, stopped 
at the door, 

“ Have you not been in ?” said Robarts. 

“No; Crawley has been at the door talking to me; he 
will be here directly, I suppose ;” and then Mark Robarts 
also prepared himself to wait till the master of the house 
should reappear. 

But Lucy had no such punctilious misgivings ; she did 
not much care now whether she offended Mr. Crawley or 
no. Her idea was to place herself by the sick woman’s 
bedside, and to send the four children away — with their 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


395 


father’s consent if it might be, but certainly without it if 
that consent were withheld. So she got down from the 
carriage, and, taking certain packages in her hand, made 
her way direct into the house. 

“ There’s a big bundle under the seat, Mark,” she said ; 
“ I’ll come and fetch it directly if you’ll drag it out.” 

For some five minutes the two dignitaries of the Church 
remained at the doors, one on his cob and the other in his 
low carriage, saying a few words to each other, and wait- 
ing till some one should again appear from the house. “ It 
is all arranged, indeed it is,” were the first words which 
reached their ears, and these came from Lucy. “There 
will be no trouble at all, and no expense, and they shall all 
come back as soon as Mrs. Crawley is able to get out of bed.” 

“ But, Miss Robarts, I can assure — ” That was Mr. 
Crawley’s voice, heard from him as he followed Miss Ro- 
barts to the door ; but one of the elder children had then 
called him into the sick-room, and Lucy was left to do her 
worst. 

“ Are you going to take the children back with you ?” 
said the dean. 

“Yes; Mrs. Robarts has. prepared for them.” 

“You can take greater liberties with my friend here 
than I can.” 

“It is all my sister’s doing,” said Robarts. “Women 
are always bolder in such matters than men.” And then 
Lucy reappeared, bringing Bobby with her, and one of the 
younger children. 

“ Do not mind what he says,” said she, “ but drive away 
when you have got them all. Tell Fanny I have put into 
the basket what things I could find, but they are very few. 
She must borrow things for Grace from Mrs. Granger’s lit- 
tle girl” (Mrs. Granger was the wife of a Framley farm- 
er) ; “ and, Mark, turn Puck’s head round, so that you 
may be off in a moment. I’ll have Grace and the other 
one here directly.” And then, leaving her brother to pack 
Bobby and his little sister inrthe back part of the vehicle, 
she returned to her business in the house. She had just 
looked in at Mrs. Crawley’s bed, and, finding her awake, 
had smiled on her, and deposited her bundle in token of 
her intended stay, and then, without speaking a word, had 
gone on her errand about the children. She had called to 
Grace to show her where she might find such things as 


396 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


were to be taken to Framley ; and having explained to the 
bairns, as well as she might, the destiny which immediately 
awaited them, prepared them for their departure without 
saying a word to ilr. Crawley on the subject. Bobby and 
the elder of the two infants were stowed away safely in 
the back part of the carriage, where they allowed them- 
selves to be placed without saying a word. They opened 
their eyes and stared at the dean, who sat by on his horse, 
and assented to such orders as Mr. Robarts gave them — no 
doubt with much surprise, but nevertheless in absolute si- 
lence. 

“ Now, Grace, be quick, there’s a dear,” said Lucy, re- 
turning with the infant in her arms. “ And, Grace, mind 
you are very careful about baby ; and bring the basket ; 
I’ll give it you when you are in.” Grace and the other 
child were then packed on to the other seat, and a basket 
with children’s clothes put in on the top of them. “ That’ll 
do, Mark ; good-by ; tell Fanny to be sure and send the 
day after to-morrow, and not to forget — ” and then she 
whispered into her brother’s ear an injunction about cer- 
tain dairy comforts which might not be spoken of in the 
hearing of Mr. Crawley. “ Good-by, dears ; mind you are 
good children ; you shall hear about mamma the day after 
to-morrow,” said Lucy ; and Puck, admonished by a sound 
from his master’s voice, began to move just as Mr. Crawley 
reappeared at the house door. 

“ Oh, oh, stop !” he said. “ Miss Rgbarts, you really had 
better not — ” 

“ Go on, Mark,” said Lucy, in a whisper, which, whether 
audible or not by Mr. Crawley, was heard very plainly by 
the dean. And Mark, who had slightly arrested Puck by 
the reins on the appearance of Mr. Crawley, now touched 
the impatient little beast with his whip, and the vehicle 
with its freight darted off rapidly. Puck shaking his head 
and going away with a tremendously quick short trot, 
which soon separated Mr. Crawley from his family. 

“ Miss Robarts,” he begari^ “ this step has been taken al- 
together without — ” 

“Yes,” said she, interrupting him. “My brother was 
obliged to return at once. The children, you know, will 
remain altogether at the Parsonage, and that, I think, is 
what Mrs. Crawley will best like. In a day or two they 
will be under Mrs. Robarts’s own charge.” 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


397 


“ But, my dear Miss Robarts, I had no intention what- 
ever of putting the burden of my family on the shoulders 
of another person. They must return to their own home 
immediately — that is, as soon as they can be brought back.” 

“ I really think Miss Robarts has managed very well,” 
said the dean. “Mrs. Crawley must be so much more 
comfortable to think that they are out of danger.” 

“ And they will be quite comfortable at the Parsonage,” 
said Lucy. 

“I do not at all doubt that,” said Mr. Crawley; “but 
too much of such comforts will unfit them for their home ; 
and — and I could have wished that I had been consulted 
more at leisure before the proceeding had been taken.” 

“ It was arranged, Mr. Crawley, when I was here before, 
that the children had better go away,” pleaded Lucy. 

“ I do not remember agreeing to such a measure. Miss 
Robarts ; however — I suppose they can not be had back 
to-night ?” 

“ No, not to-night,” said Lucy. “ And now I will go in 
to your wife.” And then she returned to the house, leav- 
ing the two gentlemen at the door. At this moment a 
laborer’s boy came sauntering by, and the dean, obtaining 
possession of his services for the custody of his horse, was 
able to dismount and put himself on a more equal footing 
for conversation with his friend. 

“ Crawley,” said he, putting his hand affectionately on 
his friend’s shoulder, as they both stood leaning on the lit- 
tle rail before the door, “ that is a good girl — a very good 
girl.” 

“Yes,” said he, slowly, “she means w^ell.” 

“Nay, but she does well — she does excellently. What 
can be better than her conduct now ? While I was medi- 
tating how I might possibly assist your wife in this strait — ” 

“ I want no assistance — none, at least, from man,” said 
Crawley, bitterly. 

“ Oh, my friend, think of what you are saying ! Think 
of the wickedness which must accompany such a state of 
mind ! Have you ever known any man able to walk alone, 
without assistance from his brother men ?’’ 

Mr. Crawley did not make any immediate answer, but, 
putting his arms behind his back and closing his hands, as 
was his wont when he walked alone thinking of the gen- 
eral bitterness of his lot in life, began to move slowly along 


898 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


the road in front of his house. He did not invite the other 
to walk with him, but neither was there any thing in his 
manner which seemed to indicate that he had intended to 
be left to himself. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, at 
that delicious period of the year when summer has just 
burst forth from the growth of spring ; when the summer 
is yet but three days old, and all the various shades of 
green which Nature can put forth are still in their unsoiled 
purity of freshness. The apple blossoms were on the trees, 
and the hedges were sweet with May. The cuckoo at five 
o’clock was still sounding his soft summer call -with un- 
abated energy, and even the common grasses of the hedge- 
rows were sweet with the fragrance of their new growth. 
The foliage of the oaks was complete, so that every bough 
and twig was clothed ; but the leaves did not yet hang 
heavy in masses, and the bend of every bough and the ta- 
pering curve of every twig were visible through their light 
green covering. There is no time of the year equal in 
beauty to the first week in summer ; and no color which 
Nature gives, not even the gorgeous hues of autumn, which 
can equal the verdure produced by the first warm suns of 
May. 

Hogglestock, as has been explained, has little to ofler in 
the way of landscape beauty, and the clergyman’s house at 
Hogglestock was not placed on a green slopy bank of land, 
retired from the road, with its windows opening on to a 
lawn, surrounded by shrubs, with a view of the small church 
tower seen through them ; it had none of that beauty 
which is so common to the cozy houses of our spiritual pas- 
tors in the agricultural parts of England. Hogglestock 
Parsonage stood bleak beside the road, with no pretty 
paling lined inside by hollies and laburnum, Portugal lau- 
rels and rose-trees. But, nevertheless, even Hogglestock 
was pretty now. There were apple-trees there covered 
with blossom, and the hedgerows were in full flower. There 
were thrushes singing, and here and there an oak-tree stood 
in the roadside, perfect in its solitary beauty. 

“Let us walk on a little,” said the dean. “Miss Ro- 
barts is with her now, and you will be better for leaving 
the room for a few minutes.” 

“No,” said he, “I must go back; I can not leave that 
young lady to do my work.” 

“ Stop, Crawley !” And the dean, putting his hand upon 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


399 


him, stayed him in the road. “ She is doing her own work, 
and if you were speaking of her with reference to any other 
household than your own, you would say so. Is it not a 
comfort to you to know that your wife has a woman near 
her at such a time as this, and a woman, too, who can speak 
to her as one lady does to another 

“ These are comforts which we have no right to expect. 
I could not have done much for poor Mary, but what a 
man could have done should not have been wanting.” 

“ I am sure of it ; I know it well. What any man could 
do by himself you would do — excepting one thing.” And 
the dean, as he spoke, looked full into the other’s face. 

“ And what is there I would not do ?” said Crawley. 

“ Sacrifice your own pride.” 

“ My pride ?” 

“Yes, your own pride.” 

“ I have had but little pride this many a day. Arabin, 
you do not know what my life has been. How is a man 
to be proud who — ” And then he stopped himself, not 
Avishing to go through the catalogue of those grievances 
Avhich, as he thought, had killed the very germs of pride 
Avithin him, or to insist by spoken words on his poverty, 
his wants, and the injustice of his position. “ Ho, I wish I 
could be proud ; but the world has been too heavy to me, 
and I have forgotten all that.” 

“ How long have I knoAvn you, Crawley ?” 

“ How long ? Ah dear ! a lifetime nearly, now.” 

“ And we Avere like brothers once.” 

“Yes, Ave Avere equal as brothers then — in our fortunes, 
our tastes, and our modes of life.” 

“ And yet you Avould begrudge me the pleasure of put- 
ting my hand in my pocket, and relieving the inconven- 
iences which have been thrown on you, and those you 
love better than yourself, by the chances of your fate in 
life.” 

“ I Avill live on no man’s charity,” said Crawley, Avith an 
abruptness which amounted almost to an expression of 
anger. 

“ And is not that pride ?” 

— ygs — it is a species of pride, but not that pride 
of which you spoke. A man can not be honest if he have 
not some pride. You yourself — would you not rather 
starve than become a beggar ?” 


400 


rHAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“I would rather beg than see my wife starve,” said 
Arabin. 

Crawley, when he heard these words, turned sharply 
round, and stood with his back to the dean, with his hands 
still behind him, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground. 

“ But in this case there is no question of begging,” con- 
tinued the dean. “I, out of those superfluities which it 
has pleased God to put at my disposal, am anxious to assist 
the needs of those whom I love.” 

“ She is not starving,” said Crawley, in a voice very bit- 
ter, but still intended to be exculpatory of himself. 

“ No, my dear friend, I know she is not, and do not you 
be angry with me because I have endeavored to put the 
matter to you in the strongest language I could use.” 

“ You look at it, Arabin, from one side only ; I can only 
look at it from the other. It is very sweet to give, I do 
not doubt that; but the taking of what is given is very 
bitter. Gift bread chokes in a man’s throat, and poisons 
his blood, and sits like lead upon the heart. You have 
never tried it.” 

“ But that is the very fault for which I blame you. That 
is the pride which I say you ought to sacrifice.” 

“ And why should I be called on to do so ? Is not the 
laborer Avorthy of his hire ? Am I not able to Avork, and 
Avillfhg ? Have I not always had my shoulder to the col- 
lar, and is it right that I should noAV be contented with the 
scraps from a rich man’s kitchen ? Arabin, you and I Avere 
equal once, and Ave Avere then friends, understanding each 
other’s thoughts and sympathizing with each other’s sor- 
rows. But it can not be so noAV.” 

“ If there be such inability, it is all Avith you.” 

“It is all Avith me, because in our connection the pain 
would all be on my side. It Avould not hurt you to see me 
at your table Avith Avorn shoes and a ragged shirt. I do 
not think so meanly of you as that. You w'ould give me 
your feast to eat though I Avere not clad a tithe as well as 
the menial behind your chair; but it would hurt me to 
know that there Avere those looking at me who thought me 
unfit to sit in your rooms.” 

“ That is the pride of Avhich I speak — false pride.” 

“ Call it so, if you Avill ; but, Arabin, no preaching of 
yours can alter it. It is all that is left to me of my manli- 
ness. That poor broken reed Avho is lying there sick — who 


PRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


401 


has sacrificed all the world to her love for me, who is the 
mother of my children, and the partner of my sorrows and 
the wife of my bosom, even she can not change me in this, 
though she pleads with the eloquence of all her wants. Not 
even for her can I hold out my hand for a dole.” 

They had now come back to the door of the house, and 
Mr. Crawley, hardly conscious of what he was doing, was 
preparing to enter. 

“ Will Mrs. Crawley be able to see me if I come in ?” 
said the dean. 

“ Oh, stop — no — you had better not do so,” said Mr. 
Crawley. “ You, no doubt, might be subject to infection, 
and then Mrs. Arabin would be frightened.” 

“ I do not care about it in the least,” said the dean. 

“ But it is of no use ; you had better not. Her room, I 
fear, is quite unfit for you to see ; and the whole house, 
you know, may be infected.” 

Dr. Arabin by this time was in the sitting-room ; but, 
seeing that his friend was really anxious that he should not 
go farther, he did not persist. 

“ It will be a comfort to us, at any rate, to know that 
Miss Robarts is with her.” 

“ The young lady is very good — very good indeed,” said 
Crawley ; “but I trust she will return to her home to-mor- 
row. It is impossible that she should remain in so po6r a 
house as mine. There will be nothing here of all the things 
that she will want.” 

The dean thought that Lucy Robarts’s wants during her 
present occupation of nursing would not be so numerous 
as to make her continued sojourn in Mrs. Crawley’s sick- 
room impossible, and therefore took his leave with a satis- 
fied conviction that the poor lady would not be left wholly 
to the somewhat unskillful nursing of her husband. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

MR. SOWERBY WITHOUT COMPANY. 

And now there were going to be wondrous doings in 
West Barsetshire, and men’s minds were much disturbed. 
The fiat had gone forth from the high places, and the queen 
had dissolved her faithful Commons. The giants, finding 
that they could efiect little or nothing with the old House, 


402 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


had resolved to try what a new venture would do for them, 
and the hubbub of a general election was to pervade the 
country. This produced no inconsiderable irritation and 
annoyance, for the House was not as yet quite three years 
old ; and members of Parliament, though they naturally 
feel a constitutional pleasure in meeting their friends and 
in pressing the hands of their constituents, are, neverthe- 
less, so far akin to the lower order of humanity that they 
appreciate the danger of losing their seats ; and the cer- 
tainty of a considerable outlay in their endeavors to retain 
them is not agreeable to the legislative mind. 

Never did the old family fury between the gods and gi- 
ants rage higher than at the present moment. The giants 
declared that every turn which they attempted to take in 
their country’s service had been thwarted by faction, in 
spite of those benign promises of assistance made to them 
only a few weeks since by their opponents ; and the gods 
answered by asserting that they were driven to this oppo- 
sition by the Boeotian fatuity of the giants. They had no 
doubt promised their aid, and were ready to give it to 
measures that were decently prudent, but not to a bill en- 
abling government at its will to pension aged bishops! 
No, there must be some limit to their tolerance ; arid when 
such attempts as these were made, that limit had been clear- 
ly passed. 

All this had taken place openly only a day or two after 
that casual whisper dropped by Tom Towers at Miss Dun- 
stable’s party — by Tom Towers, that most pleasant of all 
pleasant fellows. And how should he have known it, he 
who flutters from one sweetest flower of the garden to an- 
other, 

“Adding sugar to the pink, and honey to the rose, 

So loved for what he gives, but taking nothing as he goes?” 

But the whisper had grown into a rumor, and the rumor 
into a fact, and the political world was in a ferment. The 
giants, furious about their bishops’ pension bill, threatened 
the House — most injudiciously ; and then it was most beau- 
tiful to see how indignant members got up, glowing with 
honesty, and declared that it was base to conceive that any 
gentleman in that House could be actuated in his vote by 
any hopes or fears with reference to his seat. And so mat- 
ters grew from bad to worse, and these contending parties 
never hit at each other with such envenomed wrath as they 


FKAMLEY PAESOXAGE. 


403 


did now, having entered the ring together so lately with 
such manifold promises of good-will, respect, and forbear- 
ance ! 

But, going from the general to the particular, we may 
say that nowhere was a deeper consternation spread than 
in the electoral division of West Barsetshire. No sooner 
had the tidings of the dissolution reached the county than 
it was known that the duke intended to change his nomi- 
nee. Mr. Sowerby had now sat for the division since the 
Reform Bill! He had become one of the county institu- 
tions, and by the dint of custom and long establishment 
had been borne with and even liked by the county gentle- 
men, in spite of his well-known pecuniary irregularities. 
Now all this was to be changed. No reason had as yet 
been publicly given, but it was understood that Lord Dum- 
bello was to be returaed, although he did not ovm an acre 
of land in the county. It is true that rumor went on to 
say that Lord Dumbello was about to form close connec- 
tions with Barsetshire. He w^as on the eve of marrying a 
young lady, from the other division indeed, and was now 
engaged, so it was said, in completing arrangements with 
the government for the purchase of that noble crown prop- 
erty usually known as the Chase of Chaldicotes. w^as 
also stated — this statement, however, had hitherto been 
only announced in confidential whispers — that Chaldicotes 
House itself would soon become the residence of the mar- 
quis. The duke was claiming it as his own — would very 
shortly have completed his claims and taken possession; 
and then, by some arrangement between them, it was to be 
made over to Lord Dumbello. 

But very contrary rumors to these got abroad also. 
Men said — such as dared to oppose the duke, and some few 
also who did not dare to oppose him when the day of bat- 
tle came — that it was beyond his grace’s power to turn 
Lord Dumbello into a Barsetshire magnate. The crown 
property — such men said — was to fall into the hands of 
young Sir. Gresham, of Boxall Hill, in the other division, 
and that the terms of purchase had been already settled. 
And as to Mr. Sowerby’s property and the house of Chal- 
dicotes — these opponents of the Omnium interest w^ent on 
to explain — it was by no means as yet so certain that the 
duke w^ould be able to enter it and take possession. The 
place w^as not to be given up to him quietly. A great fight 


404 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


would be made, and it was beginning to be believed that 
the enormous mortgages would be paid oif by a lady of 
immense wealth. And then a dash of romance was not 
wanting to make these stories palatable. This lady of im- 
mense wealth had been courted by Mr. Sowerby, had ac- 
knowledged her love, but had refused to marry him on ac- 
count of his character. In testimony of her love, however, 
she was about to pay all his debts. 

It was soon put beyond a rumor, and became manifest 
enough, that Mr. Sowerby did not intend to retire from the 
county in obedience to the duke’s behests. A placard was 
posted through the whole division in which no allusion was 
made by name to the duke, but in which Mr. Sowerby 
warned his friends not to be led away by any report that 
he intended to retire from the representation of West Bar- 
setshire. “ He had sat,” the placard said, “ for the same 
county during the full period of a quarter of a century, 
and he would not lightly give u]^ an honor that had been 
extended to him so often and which he prized so dearly. 
There were but few men now in the House whose connec- 
tion with the same body of constituents had remained un- 
broken so long as had that which bound him to West Bar- 
setshii’e, and he confidently hoped that that connection 
might be continued through another period of coming years 
till he might find himself in the glorious position of being 
the father of the county members of the House of Com- 
mons.” The placard said much more than this, and hinted 
at sundry and various questions, all of great interest to the 
county; but it did not say one word of the Duke of Om- 
nium, though every one knew what the duke was supposed 
to be doing in the matter. He was, as it were, a great 
Llama, shut up in a holy of holies, inscrutable, invisible, in- 
exorable — not to be seen by men’s eyes or heard by their 
ears, hardly to be mentioned by ordinary men at such pe- 
riods as these without an inward quaking. But, neverthe- 
less, it was he who was supposed to rule them. Euphe- 
mism required that his name should bo mentioned at no pub- 
lic meetings in connection with the coming election ; but, 
nevertheless, most men in the county believed that he could 
send his dog up to the House of Commons as member for 
West Barsetshire if it so pleased him. 

It was supposed, therefore, that our friend Sowerby 
would have no chance; but he was lucky in finding assist- 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


405 


ance in a quarter from which he certainly had not deserved 
it. He had been a stanch friend of the gods during the 
whole of his political life — as, indeed, was to be expected, 
seeing that he had been the duke’s nominee ; but, never- 
theless, on the present occasion, all the giants connected 
with the county came forward to his rescue. They did 
not do this with the acknowledged purpose of opposing 
the duke ; they declared that they were actuated by a gen- ^ 
erous disinclination to see an old county member put from 
his seat; but the world knew that the battle was to be , 
waged against the great Llama. It was to be a contest 
between the powers of aristocracy and the powers of oli- 
garchy, as those powers existed in West Barsetshire, and 
it may be added that democracy would have very little to 
say to it on one side or on the other. The lower order of 
voters, the small farmers and tradesmen, would no doubt 
range themselves on the side of the duke, and would en- 
deavor to flatter themselves that they were thereby fur- 
thering the views of the liberal side, but they would, in 
fact, be led to the poll by an old-fashioned, time-honored 
adherence to the will of their great Llama, and by an ap- 
prehension of evil if that Llama should arise and shake 
himself in his wrath. What might not come to the county 
if the Llama were to walk himself off, he, with his satellites, 
and armies, and courtiers ? There he was, a great Llama ; 
and, though he came among them but seldom, and was 
scarcely seen when he did come, nevertheless — and not the 
less, but rather the more — was obedience to him considered 
as salutary and opposition regarded as dangerous. A great 
rural Llama is still sufiiciently mighty in rural England. 

But the priest of the temple, Mr. Fothergill, was frequent 
enough in men’s eyes, and it was beautiful to hear with how 
varied a voice he alluded to the things around him and to 
the changes which were coming; To the small farmers, 
not only on the Gatherum property, but on others also, he 
spoke of the duke as a beneficent influence, shedding pros- 
perity on all around him, keeping up prices by his pres- 
ence, and forbidding the poor-rates to rise above one and 
fourpence in the pound by the general employment wLich 
he occasioned. Men must be mad, he thought, who would 
willingly fly in the duke’s face. To the squires from a dis- 
tance he declared that no one had a right to charge the 
duke with any interference — as far, at least, as he knew the 


400 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


duke’s mind. People would talk of things of which they 
understood nothing. Could any one say that he had traced 
a single request for a vote home to the duke ? All this 
did not alter the settled conviction on men’s minds, but it 
had its effect, and tended to increase the mystery in which 
the duke’s doings were enveloped. But to his own famil- 
iars — to the gentry immediately around him, Mr. Fother- 
gill merely winked his eye. They knew what was what, 
and so did he. The duke had never been bit yet in such 
matters, and Mr. Fothergill did not think that he would 
now submit himself to any such operation. 

I never heard in what manner and at what rate Mr. 
Fothergill received remuneration for the various services 
performed by him with reference to the duke’s property in 
Barsetshire, but I am very sure that, whatever might be the 
amount, he earned it thoroughly. Never w^as there a more 
faithful partisan, or one who, in his partisanship, was more 
discreet. In this-matter of the coming election he declared 
that he himself — personally, on his own hook — did intend 
to bestir himself actively on behalf of Lord Dumbello. Mr. 
Sowerby was an old friend of his, and a very good fellow. 
That was true. But all the world must admit that Sower- 
by was not in the position which a county member ought 
to occupy. He was a ruined man, and it would not be for 
his own advantage that he should be maintained in a posi- 
tion which was fit only for a man of property. He knew 
— he, Fothergill — -that Mr. Sowerby must abandon all right 
and claim to Chaldicotes ; and if so, what would be more 
absurd than to acknowledge that he had a right and claim 
to the seat in Parliament. As to Lord Dumbello, it was 
probable that he would soon become one of the largest 
landowners in the county ; and, as such, who could be more 
fit for the representation? Beyond this, Mr. Fothergill 
was not ashamed to confess — so he said — that he hoped to 
hold Lord Humbello’s agency. It would be compatible 
with his other duties, and therefore, as a matter of course, 
he intended to support Lord Dumbello — he himself, that 
is. As to the duke’s mind in the matter — But I have 
already explained hoAV Mr. Fothergill disposed of that. 

In these days, Mr. Sowerby came down to his own house 
— for ostensibly it was still his own house ; but he came 
very quietly, and his arrival was hardly known in his own 
village. Though his i)lacard was stuck uj) so widely, he 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


407 


himself took no electioneering steps — none, at least, as yet. 
The protection against arrest which he derived from Par- 
liament would soon be over, and those who were most bit- 
ter against the duke averred that steps would be taken to 
arrest him, should he give sufficient opportunity to the myr- 
midons of the law. That he would, in such case, be arrest- 
ed, was very likely, but it was not likely that this would be 
done in any way at the duke’s instance. Mr. Fothergill 
declared indignantly that this insinuation made him very 
angry ; but he was too prudent a man to be very angry at 
any thing, and he knew how to make capital on his own 
side of charges such as these which overshot their owif 
mark. 

Mr. Sowerby came down very quietly to Chaldicotes, 
and there he remained for a couple of days quite alone. 
The place bore a very different aspect now to that which 
we noticed when Mark Robarts drove up to it, in the early 
pages of this little narrative. There were no lights in the 
windows now, and no voices came from the stables ; no 
dogs barked, and all was dead and silent as the grave. 
During the greater portion of those two days he sat alone 
within the house, almost unoccupied. He did not even 
open his letters which lay piled on a crowded table in the 
small breakfast parlor in which he sat ; for the letters of 
such men come in piles, and there are few of them which 
are pleasant in the reading. There he sat, troubled with 
thoughts which were sad enough, now and then moving to 
and fro the house, but for the most part occupied in think- 
ing over the position to which he had brought himself. 
What would he be in the world’s eye if he ceased to be 
the owner of Chaldicotes, and ceased also to be the mem- 
ber for his county? lie had lived ever before the Avorld, 
and, though always harassed by encumbrances, had been 
sustained and comforted by the excitement of a prominent 
230sition. His debts and difficulties had hitherto been bear- 
able, and he had borne them with ease so long that he had 
almost taught himself to think that they would never be 
unendurable. But now — 

The order for foreclosing had gone forth, and the har- 
pies of the law, by their present speed in sticking their 
claws into the carcase of his property, were atoning to 
themselves for the delay with which they had hitherto 
been compelled to approach their prey. And the order as 


408 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


to his seat had gone forth also. That placard had been 
drawn up by the combined efforts of his sister, Miss Dun- 
stable, and a certain well-known electioneering agent named 
Closerstill, presumed to be in the interest of the giants. 
But poor Sowerby had but little confidence in the placard. 
No one knew better than he how great was the duke’s 
power. 

He w^as hopeless, therefore, as he w^alked about through 
those empty rooms, thinking of his past life and of that life 
which was to come. Would it not be well for him that 
he Avere dead, now that he Avas dying to all that had made 
the Avorld pleasant! We see and hear of such men as Mr. 
SoAverby, and are apt to think that they enjoy all that the 
Avorld can give, and that they enjoy that all Avithout pay- 
ment either in care or labor ; but I doubt that, Avith even 
the most callous of them, their periods of Avretchedness 
must be frequent, and that Avretchedness very intense. 
Salmon and lamb in February, and green pease and ncAV 
potatoes in March, can hardly make a man happy, even 
though nobody pays for them ; and the feeling that one is 
an antecedentem scelestum after Avhom a sure, though lame 
Nemesis is hobbling, must sometimes disturb one’s slum- 
bers. On the present occasion Scelestus felt that his Ne- 
mesis had overtaken him. Lame as she had been, and SAvift 
as he had run, she had mouthed him at last, and there Avas 
nothing left for him but to listen to the “ Avhoop” set up at 
the sight of liis OAvn death-throes. 

It Avas a melancholy, dreary place noAv, that big house 
of Chaldicotes ; and, though the Avoods Avere all green Avith 
their early leaves, and the gardens thick Avith flowers, they 
also Avere melancholy and dreary. The laAvns Avere un- 
trimmed, and Aveeds Avere groAving through the graA^el, and 
here and there a cracked Dryad, tumbled from her pedestal 
and s^^raAvding in the grass, gave a look of disorder to the 
Avhole place. The Avooden trellis-Avork Avas shattered here 
and bending there, the standard rose-trees Avere stooping 
to the ground, and the leaves of the Avinter still encumber- 
ed the borders. Late in the evening of the second day Mr. 
Sowerby strolled out, and Avent through the gardens into 
the Avood. Of all the inanimate things of the Avorld, this 
Avood of Chaldicotes Avas the dearest to him. He Avas not 
a man to Avhom his companions gave much credit for feel- 
ings or thoughts akin to poetry, but here, out in the chase. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


409 


his mind would be almost poetical. While wandering 
among the forest trees, he became susceptible of the ten- 
derness of human nature : he would listen to the birds 
singing, and pick here and there a wild flower on his path. 
He would watch the decay of the old trees and the prog- 
ress of the young, and make pictures in his eyes of every 
turn in the wood. He would mark the color of a bit of 
road as it dipped into a dell, and then, passing through a 
water-course, rose brown, rough, irregular, and beautiful 
against the bank on the other side. And then he yould 
sit and think of his old family : how they had roamed there 
time out of mind in those Chaldicotes woods, father, and 
son, and grandson in regular succession, each giving them 
over, without blemish or decrease, to his successor. So he 
would sit ; and so he did sit even now, and, thinking of 
these things, wished that he had never been born. 

It was dark night when he returned to the house, and as 
he did so,‘he resolved that he would quit the place alto- 
gether, and give up the battle as lost. The duke should 
take it and do as he pleased with it ; and as for the seat in 
Parliament, Lord Dumbello, or any other equally gifted 
young patrician, might hold it for him. He would vanish 
from the scene, and betake himself to some land from 
whence he would be neither heard nor seen, and there — 
starve. Such Avere noAV his future outlooks into the Avorld; 
and yet, as regards health and all physical capacities, he 
kucAV that he Avas still in the prime of his life. Yes, in the 
prime of his life! But what could he do Avith Avhat re- 
mained to him of such prime ? How could he turn either 
his mind or his strength to such account as might noAv be 
serviceable ? Hoav could he, in his sore need, earn for him- 
self even the barest bread? Would it not be better for 
him that he should die ? Let not any one covet the lot of 
a spendthrift, even though the days of his early pease and 
Champagne seem to be unnumbered, for that lame He- 
mesis Avill surely be up before the game has been all played 
out. 

When Mr. SoAverby reached his home he found that a 
message by telegraph had arrived for him in his absence. 
It Avas from his sister, and it informed him that she Avould 
be Avith him that night. She Avas coming doAvn by the 
mail train, had telegraphed to Barchester for post-horses, 
and Avould be at Chaldicotes alxsut tAvo hours after mid- 

S 


410 


FEAMLEY FARSONAGE. 


night. It was therefore manifest enough that her business 
was of importance. 

Exactly at two the Barchester post-chaise did arrive, 
and Mrs. Harold Smith, before she retired to her bed, Avas 
closeted for about an hour Avith her brother. 

“Well,” she said, the folio Aving morning, as they sat to- 
gether at the breakfast-table, “what do you say to it now? 
If you accept her offer, you should be Avith her laAvyer this 
afternoon.” 

“ I suppose I must accept it,” said he. 

“ Certainly, I think so. No doubt it Avill take the prop- 
erty out of your own hands as completely as though the 
duke had it, but it Avill leave you the house, at any rate, 
for your life.” 

“What good AAull the house be, AA^hen I can’t keep it up?” 

“ But I am not so sure of that. She Avill not Avant more 
than her fair interest ; and as it will be thoroughly Avell 
managed, I should think that there would be something 
OA'er — something enough to keep up the house. And then, 
you knoAA^, we must have some place in the country.” 

“ I tell you fairly, Harriett, that I Avill have nothing far- 
ther to do AAutli Harold in the way of money.” 

“Ah ! that Avas because you Avould go to him. Why did 
you not come to me? And then, Nathaniel, it is the only 
Avay in Avhich you can have a chance of keeping the seat. 
She is the queerest Avoman I ever met, but she seems re- 
solved on beating the duke.” 

“ I do not quite understand it, but I have not the slight- 
est objection.” 

“ She thinks that he is interfering Avith young Gresham 
about the croAvn property. I had no idea that she had so 
much business at her fingers’ ends. When I first proposed 
the matter, she took it up quite as a laAvyer might, and 
seemed to have forgotten altogether Avhat occurred about 
that other matter.” 

“ I Avish I could forget it also,” said Mr. SoAverby. 

“ I really think that she does. When I Avas obliged to 
make some allusion to it — at least, I felt myself obliged, 
and was sorry afterward that I did — she merely laughed — 
a great loud laugh as she always does, and then Avent on 
about the business. However, she Avas clear about this, 
that all the expenses of the election should be added to 
the sum to be advanced by her, and that the house should 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


411 


be left to you without any rent. If you choose to take the 
land round the house, you fnust pay for it by the acre, as 
the tenants do. She was as clear about it all as though she 
had passed her life in a lawyer’s office.” 

My readers will now pretty well understand what last 
step that excellent sister, Mrs. Harold Smith, had taken on 
her brother’s behalf, nor will they be surprised to learn 
that in the course of the day Mr. Sowerby hurried back to 
town and put himself into communication with Miss Dun- 
stable’s lawyer. 


CHAPTER XXXVHI. 

IS THEEE CAUSE OE JUST IMPEDIMENT? 

I NOW purpose to visit another country house in Barset- 
shire, but on this occasion our sojourn shall be in the east- 
ern division, in which, as in every other county in England, 
electioneering matters are paramount at the present mo- 
ment. It has been mentioned that Mr. Gresham junior — 
young Frank Gresham, as he was always called — lived at 
a place called Boxall Hill. This property had come to his 
wife by will, and he was now settled there, seeing that his 
father still held the family seat of the Greshams at Gresh- 
amsbury. 

At the present moment Miss Dunstable was staying at 
Boxall Hill with Mrs. Frank Gresham. They had left Lon- 
don, as, indeed, all the world had done, to the terrible dis- 
may of the London tradesmen. This dissolution of Parlia- 
ment was ruining every body except the country publicans, 
and had, of course, destroyed the London season among 
other things. 

Mrs. Harold Smith had only just managed to catch Miss 
Dunstable before she left London ; but she did do so, and 
the great heiress had at once seen her lawyers, and instruct- 
ed them how to act with reference to her mortgages on 
the Chaldicotes property. Miss Dunstable was in the habit 
of speaking of herself and her own pecuniary concerns as 
though she herself were rarely allowed to meddle in their 
management ; but this Avas one of those small jokes which 
she ordinarily perpetrated ; for, in truth, few ladies, and 
perhaps not many gentlemen, have a more thorough knowl- 
edge of their OAvn concerns or a more potent voice in their 


412 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


own affairs than was possessed by Miss Dunstable. Cir- 
cumstances had lately brought her much into Barsetshire, 
and she had there contracted very intimate friendships. 
She was now disposed to become, if possible, a Barsetshire 
proprietor, and with this view had lately agreed with 
young Mr. Gresham that she would become the purchaser 
of the crown property. As, however, the purchase had 
been commenced in his name, it was so to be continued ; 
but now, as we are aware, it was rumored that, after all, 
the duke, or, if not the duke, then the Marquis of Dumbello, 
was to be the future owner of the Chase. Miss Dunstable, 
however, was not a person to give up her object if she 
could attain it, nor, under the circumstances, was she at all 
displeased at finding herself endowed with the power of 
rescuing the Sowerby portion of the Chaldicotes property 
from the duke’s clutches. "Why had the duke meddled 
Avith her, or Avith her friend, as to the other property ? 
Therefore it Avas arranged that the full amount due to the 
duke on mortgage should be ready for immediate payment ; 
but it Avas arranged also that the security as held by Miss 
Dunstable should be very valid. 

Miss Dunstable at Boxall Hill or at Greshamsbury AA^as a 
very different person from Miss Dunstable in London, and 
it Avas this difference AAdiich so much vexed Mrs. Gresham ; 
not that her friend omitted to bring AAnth her into the coun- 
try her London AAut and aptitude for fun, but that she did 
not take Avith her up to tOAvn the genuine goodness and 
love of honesty Avhich made her lovable in the country. 
She AA^as, as it Avere, tAvo persons, and Mrs. Gresham could 
not understand that any lady should permit herself to be 
more Avorldly at one time of the year than at another, or in 
one place than in any other. 

‘AYell, my dear, I am heartily glad Ave’ve done Avith 
that,” Miss Dunstable said to her, as she sat herself doAvn 
to her desk in the drawing-room on the first morning after 
her arrival at Boxall Hill. 

“What does ‘that’ mean?” said Mrs. Gresham. 

“ Why, London, and smoke, and late hours, and standing 
on one’s legs for four hours at a stretch on the top of one’s 
OAvn staircase, to be boAved at by any one Avho chooses to 
come. That’s all done — for one year, at any rate.” 

“You knoAV you like it.” 

“No, Mary, that’s just Avhat I don’t knoAv. I don't 



MliS. GKliSIIAM AND MISS DUNSTABLE. 





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FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


415 


know whether I like it or not. Sometimes, when the spirit 
of that dearest of all women, Mrs. Harold Smith, is upon 
me, I think that I do like it ; but then again, when other 
spirits are on me, I think that I don’t.” 

“And who are the owners of the other spirits?” 

“ Oh ! you are one, of course. But you are a weak little 
thing, by no means able to contend with such a Samson as 
Mrs. Harold. And then you are a little given to wicked- 
ness yourself, you know. You’ve learned to like London 
well enough since you sat down to the table of Dives. 
Your uncle — he’s the real impracticable, unapproachable 
Lazarus, who declares he can’t come down because of the 
big gulf. I wonder how he’d behave if somebody left him 
ten thousand a year ?” 

“Uncommonly well, I am sure.” 

“ Oh yes, he is a Lazarus now, so of course we are bound 
to speak well of him ; but I should like to see him tried. 
I don’t doubt but what he’d have a house in Belgrave 
Square, and become noted for his little dinners before the 
first year of his trial was over.” 

“Well, and why not? You would not wish him to be 
an anchorite ?” 

“ I am told that he is going to try his luck — not wdth ten 
thousand a year, but with one or two.” 

“ What do you mean ?” 

“ Jane tells me that they all say at Greshamsbury that he 
is going to marry Lady Scatcherd.” Now Lac^ Scatcherd 
was a widow living in those parts ; an excellent woman, 
but one not formed by nature to grace society of the high- 
est order. 

“ What !” exclaimed Mrs. Gresham, rising up from her 
chair, while her eyes flashed with anger at such a rumor. 

“Well, my dear, don’t eat me. I don’t say it is so; I 
.only say that Jane said so.” 

“Then you ought to send Jane out of the house.” 

“You may be sure of this, my dear — Jane would not 
have told me if somebody had not told her.” 

“ And you believed it ?” 

“ I have said nothing about that.” 

“ But you look as if you had believed it.” 

“ Do I ? Let us see what sort of a look it is, this look 
of faith.” And Miss Dunstable got up and went to the 
glass over the fireplace. “ But, Mary, my dear, ain’t you 


416 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


old enough to know that you should not credit people’s 
looks ? You should believe nothing nowadays ; and I did 
not believe the story about poor Lady Scatcherd. I know 
the doctor well enough to be sure that he is not a marry- 
ing man.” 

‘‘ What a nasty, hackneyed, false phrase that is — that of 
a marrying man ! It sounds as though some men were in 
the habit of getting married three or four times a month.” 

“ It means a great deal all the same. One can tell very 
soon whether a man is likely to marry or no.” 

“ And can one tell the same of a woman ?” 

“ The thing is so different. All unmarried women are 
necessarily in the market ; but if they behave themselves 
properly they make no signs. Now there was Griselda 
Grantly ; of course she intended to get herself a husband, 
and a very grand one she has got ; but she always looked 
as though butter would not melt in her mouth. It would 
have been very wrong to call her a marrying girl.” 

“Oh, of course she was,” said Mrs. Gresham, with that 
sort of acrimony Avhich one pretty young woman so fre- 
quently expresses with reference to another. “ But if one 
could always tell of a woman, as you say you can of a man, 
I should be able to tell of you. Now I wonder whether 
you are a marrying woman. I have never been able to 
make up my mind yet.” 

Miss Dunstable remained silent for a few moments, as 
though she were at first minded to take the question as 
being, in some sort, one made in earnest ; but then she at- 
tempted to laugh it ofi*. “Well, I wonder at that,” said 
she, “ as it Avas only the other day I told you how many 
ofiers I had refused.” 

“ Yes, but you did not tell me Avhether any had been 
made that you meant to accept.” 

“None such Avas ever made to me. Talking of that, I 
shall neA'er forget your cousin, the Honorable George.” 

“ He is not my cousin.” 

“Well, your husband’s. It Avould not be fair to show a 
man’s letters, but I should like to show you his.” 

“You are determined, then, to remain single?” 

“ I didn’t say that. But Avhy do you cross-question me 
so ?” 

“ Because I think so much about you. I am afraid that 
you Avill become so afraid of men’s motives as to doubt 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


■117 


that any one can be honest. And yet sometimes I think 
you would be a happier woman and abetter woman if you 
w^ere married.” 

“To such a one as the Honorable George, for instance?” 

“ No, not to such a one as him ; you have probably pick- 
ed out the worst.” 

“ Or to Mr. Sowerby ?” 

• “ W ell, no, not to Mr. Sowerby either. I would not have 
you marry any man that looked to you for your money 
principally.” 

“ And how is it possible that I should expect any one to 
look to me principally for any thing else ? You don’t see 
my difficulty, my dear. If I had only five hundred a year, 
I might come across some decent middle-aged personage, 
like myself, who would like me, myself, pretty well, and 
would like my little income — pretty well also. He would 
not tell me any violent lie, and perhaps no lie at all. I 
should take to him in the same sort of way, and we might 
do very w^ell. But as it is, how is it possible that any dis- 
interested person should learn to like me? How could 
such a man set about it ? If a sheep have two heads, is 
not the fact of the two heads the first, and, indeed, only 
thing which the world regards in that sheep? Must it 
not be as a matter of course? I am a sheep with two 
heads. All this money which my father put together, and 
which has been growing since like grass under May showers, 
lias turned me into an abortion. I am not the giantess eight 
feet high, or the dwarf that stands in the man’s hand — ” 

“ Or the two-headed sheep — ” 

“Blit I am the unmarried woman with — half a dozen 
millions of money, as I believe* some people think. Under 
such circumstances, have I a fair chance of getting my own 
sweet bit of grass to nibble, like any ordinary animal Avith 
one head ? I never Avas very beautiful, and I am not more 
so noAV than I Avas fifteen years ago.” 

“I am quite sure it is not that Avhich hinders it. You 
Avould not call yourself plain, and even plain Avomen are 
married every day, and are loved, too, as Avell as pretty 
AVomen.” 

“ Are they ? Well, Ave Avon’t say more about that ; but 
I don’t expect a great many lovers on account of my beau- 
ty. If ever you hear of such a one, mind you tell me.” 

" It Avas almost on Mrs. Gresham’s tongue to say that she 
S 2 


418 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


did know of one such, meaning her uncle. But, in truth, 
she did not know any such thing; nor could she boast to 
herself that she had good grounds for feeling that it was 
go — certainly none sufficient to justify her in speaking of 
it. Her uncle had said no word to her on the matter, and 
had been confused and embarrassed when the idea of such 
a marriage was hinted to him. But, nevertheless, Mrs. 
Gresham did think that each of these two was well inclined 
to love the other, and that they would be happier together 
than they would be single. The difficulty, however, was 
very great, for the doctor would be terribly afraid of being 
thought covetous in regard to Miss Dunstable’s money ; 
and it would hardly be expected that she should be in- 
duced to make the first overture to the doctor. 

“ My uncle would be the only man that I can think of 
that Avould be at all fit for you,” said Mrs. Gresham, boldly. 

“What, and rob poor Lady Scatcherd !” said Miss Dun- 
stable. 

“ Oh, very well. If you choose to make a joke of his 
name in that way, I have done.” 

“ Why, God bless the girl ! what does she want me to 
say ? And as for joking, surely that is innocent enough. 
You’re as tender about the doctor as though he were a girl 
of seventeen.” 

“ It’s not about him ; but it’s such a shame to laugh at 
poor dear Lady Scatcherd. If she were to hear it she’d 
lose all comfort in having my uncle near her.” 

“And I’m to marry him, so that she may be safe with 
her friend !” 

“Very well; I have done.” And Mrs. Gresham, who 
had already got up from her seat, employed herself very 
sedulously in arranging flowers which had been brought in 
for the drawing-room tables. Thus they remained silent 
for a minute or two, during which she began to reflect that, 
after all, it might probably be thought that she also was 
endeavoring to catch the great heiress for her uncle. 

“And now you are angry with me,” said Miss Dun- 
stable. 

“ No, I am not.” 

“ Oh, but you are. Do you think I’m such a fool as not 
to see when a person’s vexed ? You wouldn’t have twitch- 
ed that geranium’s head off if you’d been in a proper frame 
of mind.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


419 


“I don’t like that joke about Lady Scatcherd.” 

“And is that all, Mary? Now do try and be true, if 
you can. You remember the bishop? Magna est veri- 
tas.'"^ 

“ The fact is, you’ve got into such a way of being sharp, 
and saying sharp things among your friends up in London, 
that you can hardly answer a person without it.” 

“ Can’t I ? Dear, dear, what a Mentor you are, Mary ! 
No poor lad that ever ran up from Oxford for a spree in 
town got so lectured for his dissipation and iniquities as I 
do. Well, I beg Dr. Thorne’s pardon, and Lady Scatch- 
erd’ s, and I won’t be sharp any more ; and I will — let me 
see, what was it I was to do ? Marry him myself, I be- 
lieve ; was not that it ?” 

“ No ; you’re not half good enough for him.” 

“ I know that. I’m quite sure of that. Though I am so 
sharp, I’m very humble. You can’t accuse me of putting 
any very great value on myself.” 

“Perhaps not as much as you ought to do — on your- 
self.” 

“Now what do you mean, Mary? I won’t be bullied 
and teased, and have innuendoes thrown out at me, because 
you’ve got something on your mind, and don’t quite dare 
to speak it out. If you have got any thing to say, say it.” 

But Mrs. Gresham did not choose to say it at that mo- 
ment. She held her peace, and went on arranging her 
flowers, now with a more satisfied air, and without destruc- 
tion to the geraniums. And when she had grouped her 
bunches properly, she carried the jar from one part of the 
room to another, backward and forward, trying the efiect 
of the colors, as though her mind was quite intent upon her 
flowers, and was for the moment wholly unoccupied with 
any other subject. 

But Miss Dunstable was not the woman to put up with 
this. She sat silent in her place while her friend made one 
or two turns about the room, and then she got up from 
her seat also. “ Mary,” she said, “ give over about those 
wretched bits of green branches, and leave the jars where 
they are. You’re trying to fidget me into a passion.” 

“ Am I ?” said Mrs. Gresham, standing opposite to a big 
bowl, and putting her head a little on one side, as though 
she could better look at her handiwork in that position. 

“ You know you are, and it’s all because you lack cour- 


420 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. * 


age to speak out. You didn’t begin at me in this way for 
nothing.” 

“ I do lack courage. That’s just it,” said Mrs. Gresham, 
still giving a twist here and a set there to some of the 
small sprigs which constituted the background of her bou- 
quet. “ I do lack courage — to have ill motives imputed to 
me. I was thinking of saying something, and I am afraid, 
and therefore I will not say it. And now, if you like, I 
will be ready to take you out in ten minutes.” 

But Miss Dunstable was not going to be put off in this 
way. And, to tell the truth, I must admit that her friend 
Mrs. Gresham was not using her altogether well. She 
should either have held her peace on the matter altogether, 
which would probably have been her wiser course, or she 
should have declared her own ideas boldly, feeling secure 
in her own conscience as to her own motives. “ I shall not 
stir from this room,” said Miss Dunstable, “ till I have had 
this matter out with you. And as for imputations — my 
imputing bad motives to you — I don’t know how far you 
may be joking, and saying what you call sharp things to 
me, but you have no right to think that I should think evil 
of you. If you really do think so, it is treason to the love 
I have for you. If I thought that you thought so, I could 
not remain in the house with you. What ! you are not 
able to know the difference which one makes between one’s 
real friends and one’s mock friends ! I don’t believe it of 
you, and I know you are only striving to bully me.” And 
Miss Dunstable now took her turn of walking up and down 
the room. 

“Well, she sha’n’t be bullied,” said Mrs. Gresham, leav- 
ing her flowers, and putting her arm round her friend’s 
■waist — “ at least not here, in this house, although she is 
sometimes such a bully herself.” 

“ Mary, you have gone too far about this to go back. 
Tell me what it was that was on your mind, and, as far as 
it concerns me, I will answer you honestly.” 

Mrs. Gresham now began to repent that she had made 
her little attempt. That uttering of hints in a half-joking 
way was all very w^ell, and might possibly bring about the 
desired result without the necessity of any formal sugges- 
tion on her part ; but nov/ she was so brought to book that 
she must say something formal. She must commit herself 
to the expression of her own wishes, and to an expression 


TEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


421 


also of an opinion as to what had been the wishes of her 
friend, and this she must do without being able to say any 
thing as to the wishes of that third person. 

“Well,” she said, “I suppose you know what I meant.” 

“ I suppose I did,” said Miss Dunstable ; “ but it is not 
at all the less necessary that you should say it out. I am 
not to commit myself by my interpretation of your thoughts, 
while you remain perfectly secure in having only hinted 
your own. I hate hints, as I do — the mischief. I go in 
for the bishop’s doctrine — Magna est veritasP 

“ Well, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Gresham. 

“ Ah ! but I do,” said Miss Dunstable. “ And therefore 
go on, or forever hold your peace.” 

“That’s just it,” said Mrs. Gresham. 

“ What’s just it ?” said Miss Dunstable. 

“ The quotation out of the Prayer-book which you finish- 
ed just now. ‘ If any of you know cause or just impediment 
why these two persons should not be joined together in 
holy matrimony, ye are to declare it. This is the first time 
of asking.’ Do you know any cause, Miss Dunstable ?” 

“ Do you know any, Mrs. Gresham ?” 

“None, on my honor!” said the younger lady, putting 
her hand upon her breast. 

“Ah! but do you not?” and Miss Dunstable caught 
hold of her arm, and spoke almost abruptly in her energy. 

“No, certainly not. What impediment? If I did, I 
should not have broached the subject. I declare I think 
you would both be very happy together. Of course, there 
is one impediment ; we all know that. That must be your 
look out.” 

“ What do you mean ? What impediment ?” 

“ Your own money.” 

“Psha! Did you find that an impediment in marrying 
Frank Gresham ?” 

“ Ah ! the matter was so different there. He had much 
more to give than I had, when all was counted. And I 
had no money when we — when we were first engaged.” 
And the tears came into her eyes as she thought of the cir- 
cumstances of her early love, all of which have been nar- 
rated in the county chronicles of Barsetshire, and may now 
be read by men and women interested therein. 

“ Yes, yours was a love match. I declare, Mary, I often 
think that you are the happiest woman of whom I ever 


422 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


heard — to have it all to give, when you were so sure that 
you Avere loved while you yet had nothing.” 

“Yes, I was sure,” and she wiped the SAveet tears from 
her eyes as she remembered a certain day when a certain 
youth had come to her, claiming all kinds of privileges in a . 
very determined manner. She had been no heiress then. 
“Yes, I Avas sure. But noAV with you, dear, you can’t 
make yourself poor again. If you can trust no one — ” 

“ I can. I can trust him. As regards that, I do trust 
him altogether. But hoAV can I tell that he Avould care 
for me ?” 

“ Do you not knoAV that he likes you ?” 

“ Ah ! yes ; and so he does Lady Scatcherd.” 

“ Miss Dunstable !” 

“ And Avhy not Lady Scatcherd as Avell as me ? We are 
of the same kind — come from the same class.” 

“Not quite that, I think.” 

“ Yes, from the same class, only I have managed to poke 
myself up among dukes and duchesses, Avhereas she has 
been content to remain Avhere God placed her. Where I 
beat her in art, she beats me in nature.” 

“ You know you are talking nonsense.” 

“ I think that we are both doing that — absolute nonsense, 
such as school-girls of eighteen talk to each other. But 
there is a relief in it, is there not ? It Avould be a terrible 
qur e to have to talk sense ahvays. Well, that’s done ; and 
ndtv let us go out.” 

Mrs. Gresham Avas sure after this that Miss Dunstable 
Avould be a consenting party to the little arrangement 
Avhich she contemplated. But of that she had felt but lit- 
tle doubt for some considerable time past. The difficulty 
lay on the other side, and all that she had as yet done Avas 
to convince herself that she would be safe in assuring her 
uncle of success if he could be induced to take the enter- 
prise in hand. He Avas to come to Boxall Hill that CA^en- 
ing, and to remain there for a day or tAvo. If any thing 
could be done in the matter, noAV would be the time for 
doing it. So at least thought Mrs. Gresham,. 

The doctor did come, and did remain for the allotted 
time at Boxall Hill; but when he left Mrs. Gresham had 
not been successful. Indeed, he did not seem to enjoy his 
visit as Avas usual Avith him, and there Avas very little of 
that pleasant friendly intercourse Avhich for some time past 


FIIAMLEY TAllSONAGE. 


423 


had befell customary between him and Miss Dunstable. 
There were no passages of arms between them ; no abuse 
from the doctor against the lady’s London gayety ; no rail- 
lery from the lady as to the doctor’s country habits. They 
were very courteous to each other, and, as Mrs. Gresham 
thought, too civil by half; nor, as far as she could see, did 
they ever remain alone in each other’s company for five 
minutes at a time during the whole period of the doctor’s 
visit. What, thought Mrs. Gresham to herself, what if she 
had set these two friends at variance with each other, in- 
stead of binding them together in the closest and most dur- 
able friendship ! 

But still she had an idea that, as she had begun to play 
this game, she must play it out. She felt conscious that 
what she had done must do evil unless she could so carry 
it on as to make it'result in good. Indeed, unless she could 
so manage, she would have done a manifest injury to Miss 
Dunstable in forcing her to declare her thoughts and feel- 
ings. She had already spoken to her uncle in London, and, 
though he had said nothing to show that he approved of 
her plan, neither had he said any thing to show that he dis- 
approved it; therefore she had hoped through the whole 
of those three days that he would make some sign — at any 
rate to her; that he Tvould in some way declare what were 
his own thoughts on this matter. But the morning of his 
departure came, and he had declared nothing. 

“Uncle,” she said, in the last five minutes of his sojourn 
there, after he had already taken leave of Miss Dunstable 
and shaken hands with Mrs. Gresham, “ have you ever 
thought of what I said to you up in London ?” 

“Yes, Mary, of course I have thought about it. Such 
an idea as that, when put into a man’s head, will make it- 
self thought about.” 

“Well, and what next? Do talk to me about it. Do 
not be so hard and unlike yourself.’’ 

“ I have very little to say about it.” 

“ I can tell you this for certain, you may if you like.” 

“Mary! Mary!” 

“ I would not say so if I were not sure that I should not 
lead you into trouble.” 

“ You are foolish in wishing this, my dear— foolish in 
trying to tempt an old man into a folly.” 

“ Not foolish if I know that it will make you both hap- 
pier.” 


424 


FKAMLEY P AES ON AGE. 


He made her no farther reply, but stooping dotvii that 
she might kiss him, as was his wont, went his way, leav- 
ing her almost miserable in the thought that she had troub- 
led all these waters to no purpose. What would Miss 
Dunstable think of her But on that afternoon Miss Dun- 
stable seemed to be as happy and even-tempered as ever. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

now TO WKITE A LOVE-LETTER. 

Dr. Thorne, in the few words which he spoke to his 
niece before he left Boxall Hill, had called himself an old 
man ; but he was as yet on the right side of sixty by five 
good years, and bore about with him less of the marks of 
age than most men of fifty-five do bear. One would have 
said, in looking at him, that there was nr .’cason why he 
should not marry if he found that such a step seemed good 
to him ; and, looking at the age of the proposed bride, 
there was nothing unsuitable in that respect. 

But, nevertheless, he felt almost ashamed of himself in 
that he allowed himself even to think of the proposition 
which his niece had made. He mounted his horse that day 
at Boxall Hill — for he made all his journeys about the 
county on horseback — and rode slowly home to Greshams- 
bury, thinking not so much of the suggested marriage as 
of his own folly in thinking of it. How could he be such 
an ass at his time of life as to allow the even course of his 
way to be disturbed by any such idea? Of course he 
could not propose to himself such a wife as Miss Dunstable 
without having some thoughts as to her wealth, and it had 
been the pride of his life so to live that the world might 
know that he was indifferent about money. His profession 
was all in all to him — the air which he breathed as well as 
the bread which he ate ; and how could he follow his pro- 
fession if he made such a marriage as this ? She would 
expect him to go to London with her ; and what would he 
become, dangling at her heels there, known only to the 
world as the husband of the richest woman in the town ? 
The kind of life was one which would be unsuitable to 
him ; and yet, as he rode home, he could not resolve to rid 
himself of the idea. He went on thinking of it, though he 
still continued to condemn himself for keeping it in his 


PEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


425 


thoughts. That night, at home, he would make up his 
mind, so he declared to himself, and would then write to 
his niece begging her to drop the subject. Having so far 
come to a resolution, he went on meditating what course 
of life it might be well for him to pursue if he and Miss 
Dunstable should, after all, become man and wife. 

There were two ladies whom it behooved him to see on 
the day of his arrival — whom, indeed, he generally saw 
every day except when absent from Greshamsbury. The 
first of these — first in the general consideration of the peo- 
ple of the place — was the wife of the squire. Lady Arabella 
Gresham, a very old patient of the doctor’s. Her it was 
his custom to visit early in the afternoon ; and then, if he 
were able to escape the squire’s daily invitation to dinner, 
he customarily went to the other. Lady Scatcherd, when 
the rapid meal in his own house was over. Such, at least, 
Avas his summer practice. 

“Well, doctor, how are they at Boxall Hill?” said the 
squire, waylaying him on the gravel sweep before the door. 
The squire Avas very hard set for occupation in these sum- 
mer months. 

“ Quite well, I believe.” 

“ I don’t knoAV Avhat’s come to Frank. I think he hates 
this place noAV. He’s full of the election, I suppose.” 

“ Oh yes ; he told me to say he should be over here 
soon. Of course there’ll be no contest, so he need not 
trouble himself.” 

“Happy dog — isn’t he, doctor ? — to have it all before him 
instead of behind him. Well, well, he’s as good a lad as 
ever lived — as ever lived. And, let me see — Mary’s time — ” 
And then there were a foAV very important Avords spoken 
on that subject. 

“ I’ll just step up to Lady Arabella now,” said the doc- 
tor. 

“ She’s as fretful as possible,” said the squire. “ I’ve just 
left her.” 

“ Hothing special the matter, I hope ?” 

“Ho, I think not; nothing in your way, that is; only 
specially cross, which always comes in my Avay. You’ll 
stop and dine to-day, of course ?” 

“ Hot to-day, squire.” 

“Honsense; you will. I have been quite counting on 
you. I have a particular reason for wanting to have you 


42G 


m^mLEY PARSONAGE. 


to-day — a most particular reason.” But the squire always 
had his particular reasons. 

“ I’m very sorry, but it is impossible to-day. I shall have 
a letter to write that I must sit down to seriously. Shall 
I see you when I come down from her ladyship ?” 

The squire turned away sulkily, almost without answer- 
ing him, for he now had no prospect of any alleviation to 
the tedium of the evening ; and the doctor w^ent up stairs 
to his patient. 

For Lady Arabella, though it can not be said that she 
was ill, was always a patient. It must not be supposed 
that she kept her bed and swallowed daily doses, or was 
prevented from taking her share in such prosy gayeties as 
came from time to time in the way of her prosy life; but 
it suited her turn of mind to be an invalid and to have a 
doctor ; and as the doctor whom her good fates had placed 
at her elbow thoroughly understood her case, no great harm 
was done. 

“ It frets me dreadfully that I can not get to see Mary,” 
Lady Arabella said, as soon as the first ordinary question 
as to her ailments had been asked and answered. 

“ She’s quite well, and will be over to see you before 
long.” 

“Now I beg that she won’t. She never thinks of com- 
ing when there can be no possible objection, and traveling, 
at the present moment, would be — ” Whereupon the Lady 
Arabella shook her head very gravely. “ Only think of 
the importance of it, doctor,” she said. “ Remember the 
enormous stake there is to be considered.” 

“ It would not do her a ha’porth of harm if the stake 
were twice as large.” 

“Nonsense, doctor, don’t tell me; as if I didn’t know 
myself. I was very much against her going to London 
this spring, but of course what I said was overruled. It 
always is. I do believe Mr. Gresham went over to Boxall 
Hill on purpose to induce her to go. But what does he 
care ? He’s fond of Frank ; but he never thinks of looking 
beyond the present day. He never did, as you know well 
enough, doctor.” 

“ The trip did her all the good in the world,” said Dr. 
Thorne, preferring any thing to a conversation respecting 
the squire’s sins. 

“ I very well remember that when I was in that way it 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


427 


wasn’t thought that such trips would do me any good. 
Blit perhaps things are altered since then.” 

“ Yes, they are,” said the doctor. “ We don’t interfere 
so much nowadays.” 

“ I know I never asked for such amusements when so 
much depended on quietness. I remember before Frank 
was born — and, indeed, when all of them were born — 
But, as you say, things were different then ; and I can eas- 
ily believe that Mary is a person quite determined to have 
her own way.” 

“ Why, Lady Arabella, she would have staid at home 
without wishing to stir if Frank had done so much as hold 
up his little finger.” 

“ So did I always. If Mr. Gresham made the slightest 
hint, I gave way. But I really don’t see what one gets in 
return for such implicit obedience. Now this year, doc- 
tor, of course I should have liked to have been up in Lon- 
don for a week or two. You seemed to think yourself 
that I might as well see Sir Omicron.” 

“ There could be no possible objection, I said.” 

“ Well, no ; exactly ; and as Mr. Gresham knew I wished 
it, I think he might as well have offered it. I suppose 
there can be no reason now about money.” 

“But I understood that Mary specially asked you and 
Augusta ?” 

“ Yes, Mary was very good. She did ask me. But I 
know very well that Mary wants all the room she has got 
in London. The house is not at all too large for herself. 
And, for the matter of that, my sister, the countess, was 
very anxious that I should be with her. But one does like 
to be independent if one can, and for one fortnight I do 
think that Mr. Gresham might have managed it. When I 
knew that he was so dreadfully out at elbows I never 
troubled him about it, though, goodness knows, all that 
was never my fault.” 

“ The squire hates London. A fortnight there in warm 
weather would nearly be the death of him.” 

“ lie might, at any rate, have paid me the compliment 
of asking me. The chances are ten to one I should not 
have gone. It is that indifference that cuts me so. He 
was here just now, and, would you believe it — ” 

But the doctor was determined to avoid farther com- 
plaint for the present day. “I wonder what you Avould 


428 


PEAMLEY EAESONAGE. 


feel, Lady Arabella, if the squire were to take it into his 
head to go away and amuse himself, leaving you at home. 
There are worse men than Mr. Gresham, if you will believe 
me.” All this was an allusion to Earl de Courcy, her lady- 
ship’s brother, as Lady Arabella very well understood, and 
the argument was one which was very often used to si- 
lence her. 

“ Upon my word, then, I should like it better than his 
hanging about here doing nothing but attend to those nasty 
dogs. I really sometimes think that he has no spirit left.” 

“ You are mistaken there. Lady Arabella,” said the doc- 
tor, rising with his hat in his hand and making his escape 
without farther parley. 

As he went home he could not but think that that phase 
of married life was not a very pleasant one. Mr. Gresham 
and his wife were supposed by the world to live on the 
best of terms. They always inhabited the same house, 
went out together Avhen they did go out, always sat in 
their respective corners in the family pew, and in their 
wildest dreams after the happiness of novelty never thought 
of Sir Cress well Cress well. In some respects — with re- 
gard, for instance, to the continued duration of their joint 
domesticity at the family mansion of Greshamsbury, they 
might have been taken for a pattern couple. But yet, as 
far as the doctor could see, they did not seem to add much 
to the happiness of each other. They loved each other, 
doubtless, and, had either of them been in real danger, that 
danger would have made the other miserable ; but yet it 
might’ well be a question whether either would not be 
more comfortable without the other. 

The doctor, as was his custom, dined at five, and at seven 
he went up to the cottage of his old friend Lady Scatch- 
erd. Lady Scatcherd was not a refined woman, having in 
her early days been a laborer’s daughter, and having then 
married a laborer. But her husband had risen in the world 
— as has been told in those chronicles before mentioned — 
and his widow was now Lady Scatcherd, with a pretty 
cottage and a good jointure. She was in all things the 
very opposite to Lady Arabella Gresham; nevertheless, 
under the doctor’s auspices, the two ladies were in some 
measure acquainted with each other. Of her married life, 
also, Dr. Thorne had seen something, and it may be ques- 
tioned whether the memory of that was more alluring than 
the reality now existing at Greshamsbury. 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


429 


Of the two women Dr. Thorne much preferred his hum- 
bler friend, and to her he made his visits, not in the guise 
of a doctor, but as a neighbor. “Well, my lady,” he said, 
as he sat down by her on a broad garden-seat — all the 
world called Lady Scatcherd “ my lady” — “ and how do 
these long summer days agree with you ? Your roses are 
twice better out than any I see up at the big house.” 

“ You may well call them long, doctor. They’re long 
enough, surely.” 

“ But not too long. Come, now, I won’t have you com- 
plaining. You don’t mean to tell me that you have any 
thing to make you wretched ? You had better not, for I 
won’t believe you.” 

“ Eh ! well ; wretched ! I don’t know as I’m wretched. 
It’d be wicked to say that, and I with such comforts about 
' me.” 

“ I think it w^ould, almost.” The doctor did not say this 
harshly, but in a soft, friendly tone, and pressing her hand 
gently as he .spoke. 

“ And I didn’t mean to be wicked. I’m very thankful 
for every thing — leastways I always try to be. But, doc- 
tor, it is so lonely like.” 

“ Lonely ! not more lonely than I am.” 

“ Oh yes, you’re different. You can go every wheres. 
But what can a lone woman do ? I’ll tell you what, doc- 
tor, I’d give it all up to have Roger back, with his apron 
on and his pick in his hand. How well I mind his look 
when he’d come home o’ nights.” 

“ And yet it was a hard life you had then, eh ! old wom- 
an ? It would be better for you to be thankful for what 
you’ve got.” 

“ I am thankful. Didn’t I tell you so before ?” said she, 
somewhat crossly. “ But it’s a sad life, this living alone. 
I declares I envy Hannah, ’cause she’s got J emima to sit 
in the kitchen with her. I want her to sit with me some- 
times, but she w^on’t.” 

“ Ah ! but you shouldn’t ask her. It’s letting yourself 
down.” 

“ What do I care about down or up ? It makes no dif- 
ference, as he’s gone. If he had lived one might have 
cared about being up, as you call it. Eh! deary. I’ll 
be going after him before long, and it will be no matter 
then.” 


430 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ We shall all be going after him sooner or later, that’s 
sure enough.” 

“ Eh ! dear, that’s true, surely. It’s only a span long, as 
Parson Oriel tells us when he gets romantic in his sermons. 
But it’s a hard thing, doctor, when two is married, as they 
can’t have their span, as he calls it, out together. W ell, I 
must only put up with it, I suppose, as others does. Now 
you’re not going, doctor? You’ll stop and have a dish of 
tea with me. You never see such cream as Hannah has 
from the Alderney cow. Do’ey now, doctor ?” 

But the doctor had his letter to write, and would not 
allow himself to be tempted even by the promise of Han- 
nah’s cream. So he went his way, angering Lady Scatch- 
erd by his departure as he had before angered the squire, 
and thinking as he went which was most unreasonable in 
her wretchedness, his friend Lady Arabella or his friend 
Lady Scatcherd. The former was always complaining of 
an existing husband who never refused her any moderate 
request, and the other passed her days in murmuring at 
the loss of a dead husband, who in his life had ever b^een 
to her imperious and harsh, and had sometimes been cruel 
and unjust. 

The doctor had his letter to write, but even yet he had 
not quite made up his mind what ho would put into it ; 
indeed, he had not hitherto resolved to whom it should be 
written. Looking at the matter as he had endeavored to 
look at it, his niece, Mrs. Gresham, would be his corre- 
spondent; but if he brought himself to take this jump in 
the dark, in that case he would address himself direct to 
Miss Dunstable. 

He walked home, not by the straightest road, but taking 
a considerable curve round by narrow lanes, and through 
thick flower-laden hedges — very thoughtful. He was told 
that she wished to marry him ; and was he to think only 
of himself? And as to that pride of his about money, was 
it in truth a hearty, manly feeling, or was it a false pride, 
of which it behooved him to be ashamed as it did of many 
cognate feelings ? If he acted rightly in this matter, why 
should he be afraid of the thoughts of any one ? A life of 
solitude was bitter enough, as poor Lady Scatcherd had 
complained. But then, looking at Lady Scatcherd, and 
looking also at his other near neighbor, his friend the squire, 
there was little thereabouts to lead him on to matrimony. 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


431 


So he walked home slowly through the lanes, very medi- 
tative, with his hands behind his back. 

Nor when he got home was he much more inclined to 
any resolute line of action. He might have drank his tea 
with Lady Scatcherd, as well as have sat there in his own 
drawing-room drinking it alone; for he got no pen and 
paper, and he dawdled over his teacup with the utmost 
dilatoriness, putting off, as it were, the evil day. To only 
one thing was he fixed — to this, namely, that that letter 
should be written before he went to bed. 

Having finished his tea, which did not take place till 
near eleven, he went down stairs to an untidy little room 
which lay behind his depot of medicines, and in which he 
was wont to do his writing, and herein he did at last set 
himself down to his work. Even at that moment he was 
in doubt. But he would write his letter to Miss Dun- 
stable, and see how it looked. He was almost determined 
not to send it ; so, at least, he said to himself; but he 
could do no harm by writing it. So he did write it, as 
follows : 

“ Gresliamstury, June, 185-. 

“My dear Miss Dunstable — ” 

When he had got so far, he leaned back in his chair and 
looked at the paper. How on earth was he to find Avords 
to say that Avhich he now Avished to have said ? He had 
iieA^er Avritten such a letter in his life, or any thing ap- 
proaching to it, and now found himself overAvhelmed Avith 
a difficulty of Avhich he had not previously thought. He 
sj^ent another half hour in looking at the paper, and Avas 
at last nearly deterred by this new difficulty. He Avould 
use the simplest, plainest language, he said to himself over 
and over again ; but it is not ahvays easy to use simj^le, 
plain language — by no means so easy as to mount on stilts, 
and to march along Avith sesquipedalian Avords, Avith joathos, 
spasms, and notes of interjection. But the letter did at 
last get itself Avritten, and there Avas not a note of interjec- 
tion in it. 

“My dear Miss Dunstable, — I think it right to confess that I 
should not be now writing this letter to you had I not been led to believe 
by other judgment than my own that the proposition which I am going 
to make would be regarded by you with favor. Without such other 
judgment I should, I own, have feared that the great disparity between 
vou and me in regard to money would have given to such a proposition 


432 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


an appearance of being false and mercenary. All I ask of you now, 
with confidence, is to acquit me of such fault as that. 

“When you have read so far you will understand what I mean. We 
have known each other now somewhat intimately, though indeed not 
very long, and I have sometimes fancied that you were almost as well 
pleased to be with me as I have been to be with you. If I have been 
wrong in this, tell me so simply, and I will endeavor to let our friend- 
ship run on as though this letter had not been written. But if I have 
been right, and if it be possible that you can think that a union between 
us will make us both happier than we are single, I will plight you my 
word and troth with good faith, and will do what an old man may do to 
make the burden of the world lie light upon 3'our shoulders. Looking 
at my age, I can hardly keep myself from thinking that I am an old 
fool ; but I try to reconcile myself to that by remembering that you 
yourself are no longer a girl. You see that I pay you no compliments, 
and that 3'ou need expect none from me. 

“I do not know that I could add any thing to the truth of this if I 
were to write three times as much. All that is necessary is that you 
should know what I mean. If you do not believe me to be true and 
honest already, nothing that I can write will make you believe it. 

“God bless you. I know you will not keep mo long in suspense for 
an answer. Affectionately your friend, Thomas Thorne.” 

When he had finished, he meditated again for another 
lialf hour whether it would not be right that he should add 
something about her money. Would it not be well for 
him to tell her — it might be said in a postscrij^t — that with 
regard to all her wealth she would be free to do wdiat she 
chose ? At any rate, he owed no debts for her to pay, and 
would still have his own income, sufficient for his own pur- 
poses. But about one o’clock he came to the conclusion 
that it would be better to leave the matter alone. If she 
cared for him, and could trust him, and was worthy also 
that he should trust her, no omission of such a statement 
would deter her from coming to him ; and if there were no 
such trust, it would not be created by any such assurance 
on his part. So he read the letter over twice, sealed it, 
and took it up, together with his bed-candle, into his bed- 
room. Now that the letter was written, it seemed to bo 
a thing fixed by fate that it must go. He had written it 
that he might see how it looked when written ; but, now 
that it was written, there remained no doubt but that it 
must be sent. ^ So he went to bed, with the letter on the 
toilet-table beside him, and early in the morning — so early 
as to make it seem that the importance of the letter had 
disturbed his rest — he sent it off by a special messeimer to 
Boxall Hill. 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


433 


“ I’se wait for an answer ?” said the boy. 

“No,” said the doctor; “leave the letter, and come 
away.” 

The breakfast hour was not very early at Boxall Hill in 
these summer months. Frank Gresham, no doubt, went 
round his farm before he came in for prayers, and his wife 
was probably looking to the butter in the dairy. At any 
rate, they did not meet till near ten, and therefore, though 
the ride from Greshamsbury to Boxall Hill was nearly two 
hours’ work. Miss Dunstable had her letter in her own 
room before she came down. 

She read it in silence as she was dressing, while the maid 
was with her in the room ; but she made no sign which 
could induce her Abigail to think that the epistle was more 
than ordinarily important. She read it, and then quietly 
refolding it and placing it in the envelope, she put it down 
on the table at which she was sitting. It was full fifteen 
minutes afterward that she begged her servant to see if 
Mrs. Gresham were still in her own room. “ Because I 
want to see her for five minutes alone, before breakfast,” 
said Miss Dunstable. 

“ You traitor ! yon false, black traitor !” were the first 
words which Miss Dunstable spoke when she found herself 
alone with her friend. 

“ Why, what’s the matter ?” 

“ I did not think there was so much mischief in you, nor 
so keen and commonplace a desire for match-making. 
Look here! Read the first four lines; not more, if you 
please ; the rest is private. Whose is the other judgment 
of whom your uncle speaks in his letter ?” 

“ Oh, Miss Dunstable ! I must read it all.” 

“ Indeed you’ll do no such thing. You think it’s a love- 
letter, I dare say ; but, indeed, there’s not a word about 
love in it.” 

“ I know he has offered. I shall be so glad, for I know 
you like him.” 

“ He tells me that I am an old woman, and 'insinuates 
that I may probably be an old fool.” 

“ I am sure he does not say that.” 

“ Ah ! but I’m sure that he does. The former is true 
enough, and I never complain of the truth. But as to the 
latter, I am by no means so certain that it is true — n^ in 
the sense that he means it.” ^ 

T 


434 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


“Dear, clearest woman, don’t go on in that way now. 
Do speak out to me, and speak without jesting.” 

“ AVhose was the other judgment to whom he trusts so 
implicitly ? Tell me that.” 

“Mine — mine, of course. No one else can have sj^oken 
to him about it. Of course I talked to him.” 

“ And what did you tell him ?” 

“ I told him — ” 

“Well, out with it. Let me have the real facts. Mind, 
I tell you fairly that you had no right to tell him any thing. 
What passed between us passed in confidence. But let us 
hear what you did say.” 

“I told him that you would have him if he ofiered.” 
And Mrs. Gresham, as she spoke, looked into her friend’s 
face doubtingly, not knowing whether in very truth Miss 
Dunstable were pleased with her or displeased. If she 
were displeased, then how had her uncle been deceived ! 

“ You told him that as a fact ?” 

“ I told him that I thought so.” 

“Then I suppose I am bound to have him,” said Miss 
Dunstable, dropping the letter on to the floor in mock de- 
spair. 

“My dear, dear, dearest woman!” said Mrs. Gresham, 
bursting into tears, and throwing herself on to her friend’s 
neck. 

“Mind you are a dutiful niece,” said Miss Dunstable. 
“ And now let me go and finish dressing.” 

In the course of the afternoon, an answer was sent back 
to Greshamsbury in these words : 

‘‘Dear Dr. Thorne, — I do and will trust you in every thing; and 
it shall be as you would have it. Mary writes to you ; but do not be- 
lieve a word she says. I never will again, for she has behaved so bad 
in this matter. Yours affectionately and very truly, 

“Martha Dunstable.” 

“ And so I am going to marry the richest woman in Eng- 
land,” said Dr. Thorne to himself, as he sat down that day 
to his mutton-chop. 


FEAMLEY PAKSOKAGE. 


435 


CHAPTER XL. 

INTEKNECINE. 

It must be conceived that there was some feeling of tri- 
umph at Plumstead Episcopi when the wife of the rector 
returned home with her daughter, the bride elect of the 
Lord Dumbello. The heir of the Marquis of Hartletop 
was, in wealth, the most considerable unmarried young 
nobleman of the day ; he was noted, too, as a man difficult 
to be pleased — as one who was very fine, and who gave 
himself airs ; and to have been selected as the wife of such 
a man as this was a great thing for the daughter of a parish 
clergyman. W e have seen in what manner the happy giiTs 
mother communicated the fact to Lady Lufton, hiding, as 
it were, her pride under a veil; and we have seen also how 
meekly the iiappy girl bore her own great fortune, apply- 
ing herself humbly to the packing of her clothes, as though 
she ignored her own glory. 

But, nevertheless, there was triumph at Plumstead Epis- 
copi. The mother, when she returned home, began to feel 
that she had been thoroughly successful in the great object 
of her life. While she was yet in London she had hardly 
realized her satisfaction, and there were doubts then wheth- 
er the cup might not be dashed from her lips before it was 
tasted. It might be that even the son of the Marquis of 
Hartletop was subject to parental authority, and that bar- 
riers should spring up between Griselda and her coronet; 
but there had been nothing of the kind. The archdeacon 
had been closeted with the marquis, and Mrs. Grantly had 
been closeted with the marchioness; and though neither 
of those noble persons had expressed themselves gratified 
by their son’s proposed marriage, so also neither of them 
had made any attempt to prevent it. Lord Dumbello was 
a man who had a will of his own — as the Grantlys boasted 
among themselves. Poor Griselda ! the day may perhaps 
come when this fact of her lord’s masterful will may not 
to her be matter of much boasting. But in London, as I 
was saying, there had been no time for an appreciation of 
the family joy. The work to be done was nervous in its 


436 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


nature, and self-glorification might have been fatal; but 
now, when they were safe at Plumstead, the great truth 
burst upon them in all its splendor. 

Mrs. Grantly had but one daughter, and the formation 
of that child’s character and her establishment in the world 
had been the one main object of the mother’s life. Of 
Griselda’s great beauty the Plumstead household had long 
been conscious ; of her discretion also, of her conduct, and 
of her demeanor there had been no doubt. But the father 
had sometimes hinted to the mother that he did not think 
that Grizzy was quite so clever as her brothers. “ I don’t 
agree with you at all,” Mrs. Grantly had answered. “ Be- 
sides, what you call cleverness is not at all necessary in a 
girl ; she is perfectly ladylike ; even you won’t deny that.” 
The archdeacon had never wished to deny it, and was now 
fain to admit that what he had called cleverness was not 
necessary in a young lady. 

At this period of the family glory the archdeacon him- 
self was kept a little in abeyance, and was hardly allowed 
free intercourse "with his own magnificent child. Indeed, 
to give him his due, it must be said of him that he would 
not consent to walk in the triumphal procession which 
moved with stately step, to and fro, through the Barchester 
regions. He kissed his daughter and blessed her, and bade 
her love her husband and be a good wife ; but such injunc- 
tions as these, seeing how splendidly she had done her 
duty in securing to herself a marquis, seemed out of place 
and almost vulgar. Girls about to marry curates or suck- 
ing barristers should be told to do their duty in that sta- 
tion of life to which God might be calling them, but it 
seemed to be almost an impertinence in a father to give 
such an injunction to a future marchioness. 

“ I do not think that you have any ground for fear on 
her behalf,” said Mrs. Grantly, “ seeing in what way she 
has hitherto conducted herself.” 

“ She has been a good girl,” said the archdeacon, “ but 
she is about to be placed in a position of great temptation.” 

“ She has a strength of mind suited for any position,” 
replied Mrs. Grantly, vaingloriously. 

But, nevertheless, even the archdeacon moved about 
through the Close at Barchester with a somewhat prouder 
step since the tidings of this alliance had become known 
there. The time had been — in the latter days of his fa- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


437 


ther’s lifetime — when he was the greatest man of the Close. 
The dean had been old and infirm, and Dr. Grantly had 
wielded the bishop’s authority. But, since that, things had 
altered. A new bishop had come there, absolutely hostile 
to him. A new dean had also come, who w'as not only his 
friend, but the brother-in-law of his wife ; but even this 
advent had lessened the authority of the archdeacon. The 
vicars choral did not hang upon his words as they had been 
wont to do, and the minor canons smiled in return to his 
smile less obsequiously when they met him in the clerical 
circles of Barchester. But now it seemed that his old su- 
premacy was restored to him. In the minds of many men, 
an archdeacon, who was the father-in-law of a marquis, was 
himself as good as any bishop. He did not say much of 
his new connection to others besides the dean, but he was 
conscious of the fact, and conscious also of the reflected 
glory which shone around his own head. 

But, as regards Mrs. Grantly, it may be said that she 
moved in an unending procession of stately ovation. It 
must not be supposed that she continually talked to her 
friends and neighbors of Lord Dumbello and the marchion- 
ess. She was by far too wise for such folly as that. The 
coming alliance having been once announced, the name of 
Hartletop w^as hardly mentioned by her out of her own 
domestic circle. But she assumed, with an ease that was 
surprising even to herself, the airs and graces of a mighty 
woman. She went through her work of morning calls as 
though it were her business to be affable to the country 
gentry. She astonished her sister, the dean’s wife, by the 
simplicity of her grandeur; and condescended to Mrs. 
Proudie in a manner which nearly broke that lady’s heart. 
“ I shall be even with her yet,” said Mrs. Proudie to her- 
self, who had contrived to learn various very deleterious 
circumstances respecting the Hartletop family since the 
news about Lord Dumbello and Griselda had become known 
to her. 

Griselda herself was carried about in the procession, tak- 
ing but little part in it of her own, like an Eastern god. 
She suffered her mother’s caresses and smiled in her moth- 
er’s face as she listened to her own praises, but her triumph 
was apparently within. To no one did she say much on 
the subject, and greatly disgusted the old family house- 
keeper by declining altogether to discuss the future Dum- 


438 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


bello menage. To her aunt, Mrs. Arabin, who strove hard 
to lead her into some open-hearted speech as to her future 
aspirations, she was perfectly impassive. “ Oh yes, aunt, 
of course,” and “ I’ll think about it. Aunt Eleanor,” or “ Of 
course I shall do that, if Lord Dumbello wishes it.” Noth- 
ing beyond this could be got from her ; and so, after half 
a dozen ineffectual attempts, Mrs. Arabin abandoned the 
matter. 

But then there arose the subject of clothes — of the wed- 
ding trousseau! Sarcastic people are wont to say that the 
tailor makes the man. Were I such a one, I might cer- 
tainly assert that the milliner makes the bride. As regard- 
ing her bridehood, in distinction either to her girlhood or 
her wifehood — as being a line of plain demarkation between 
those two periods of a woman’s life — tho^milliner does do 
much to make her. She would be hardly a bride if the 
trousseau were not there. A girl married without some 
such appendage would seem to pass into the condition of 
a wife without any such line of demarkation. In that mo- 
ment in which she finds herself in the first fruition of her 
marriage finery she becomes a bride ; and in that other 
moment, when she begins to act upon the finest of these 
things as clothes to be packed up, she becomes a wife. 

When this subject was discussed Griselda displayed no 
lack of a becoming interest. She went to work steadily, 
slowly, and almost with solemnity, as though the business 
in hand were one which it would be wicked to treat with 
impatience. She even struck her mother with awe by the 
grandeur of her ideas and the depth of her theories. Nor 
let it be supposed that she rushed away at once to the con- 
sideration of the great fabric which was to be the ultimate 
sign and mark of her status, the quintessence of her bidd- 
ing, the outer veil, as it were, of the tabernacle — namely, 
her wedding-dress. As a great poet works himself up by 
degrees to that inspiration which is necessary for the grand 
turning-point of his epic, so did she slowly approach the 
hallowed ground on which she would sit, with her minis- 
ters around her, when about to discuss the nature, the ex- 
tent, the design, the coloring, the structure, and the orna- 
mentation of that momentous piece of apparel. No ; there 
was much indeed to be done before she came to this ; and 
as the poet, to whom I have already alluded, first invokes 
his muse, and then brings his smaller events gradually out 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


439 


upon his stage, so did Miss Grantly with sacred fervor ask 
her mother’s aid, and then prepare her list of all those ar- 
ticles of under-clothing which must be the substratum for 
the visible magnificence of her trousseau. 

Money was no object. We all know what that means; 
and frequently understand, when the words are used, that 
a blaze of splendor is to bo attained at the cheapest possi- 
ble price. But, in this instance, money was no object — 
such an amount of money, at least, as could by any possibil- 
ity be spent on a lady’s clothes, independently of her jew- 
els. With reference to diamonds and such like, the arch- 
deacon at once declared his intention of taking the matter 
into his own hands — except in so far as Lord Bumbello, or 
the Ilartletop interest, might be pleased to participate in 
the selection. Nor was Mrs. Grantly sorry for such a de- 
cision. She was not an imprudent woman, and would have 
dreaded the responsibility of trusting herself on such an 
occasion among the dangerous temptations of a jeweler’s 
shop. But as far as silks and satins went — in the matter 
of French bonnets, muslins, velvets, hats, riding-habits, ar- 
tificial flowers, head-gilding, curious nettings, enameled 
buckles, golden-tagged bobbins, and mechanical petticoats 
— as regarded shoes, and gloves, and corsets, and stockings, 
and linen, and flannel, and calico — money, I may conscien- 
tiously assert, was no object. And, under these circum- 
stances, Griselda Grantly went to work with a solemn in- 
dustry and a steady perseverance that was beyond all 
praise. 

“ I hope she will be happy,” Mrs. Arabin said to her sis- 
ter, as the two were sitting together in the dean’s draw- 
ing-room. 

“ Oh yes, I think she will. Why should she not ?” said 
the mother. 

“ Oh no, I know of no reason. But she is going up into 
a station so much above her own in the eyes of the world 
that one can not but feel anxious for her.” 

“ I should feel much more anxious if she were going to 
marry a poor man,” said Mrs. Grantly. “It has always 
seemed to me that Griselda was fitted for a high position ; 
that nature intended her for rank and state. You see that 
she is not a bit elated. She takes it all as if it were her 
own by right. I do not think that there is any danger 
that her head will be turned, if you mean that.” 


440 


FEAMLEY TAESONAGE. 


“ I was thinking rather of her heart,” said Mrs. Arahin. 

“ She never would have taken Lord Dumhello without 
loving him,” said Mrs. Grantly, speaking rather quickly. 

“That is not quite what I mean, either, Susan. I am 
sure she would not have accepted him had she not loved 
him. But it is so hard to keep the heart fresh among all 
the grandeurs of high rank ; and it is harder for a girl to 
do so 'who has not been born to it, than for one wLo has 
enjoyed it as her birthright.” 

“ I don’t quite understand about fresh hearts,” said Mrs. 
Grantly, pettishly. “ If she does her duty, and loves her 
husband, and fills the position in which God has placed 
her with propriety, I don’t know that we need look for any 
thing more. I don’t at all approve of the plan of frighten- 
ing a young girl when she is making her first outset into 
the world.” 

“I^’o, I would not frighten her. I think it would be al- 
most diificult to frighten Griselda.” 

“I hope it would. The great matter with a girl is 
whether she has been brought up with proper notions as 
to a woman’s duty. Of course it is not for me to boast on 
this subject. Such as she is, I, of course, am responsible. 
But I must own that I do not see occasion to wish for any 
change.” And then the subject was allowed to drop. 

Among those of her relations who wondered much at 
the girl’s fortune, but allowed themselves to say but little, 
was her grandfather, Mr. Harding. He was an old clergy- 
man, plain and simple in his manners, and not occupying a 
very prominent position, seeing that he was only j)recentor 
to the chapter. He was loved by his daughter, Mrs. 
Grantly, and was treated by the archdeacon, if not invari- 
ably with the highest respect, at least always with consid- 
eration and regard. But, old and plain as he was, the 
young people at Plumstead did not hold him in any great 
reverence. He was poorer than their other relatives, and 
made no attempt to hold his head high in Barsetshire cir- 
cles. Moreover, in these latter days, the home of his heart 
had been at the deanery. He had, indeed, a lodging of his 
own in the city, but was gradually allowing himself to be 
weaned away from it. He had his own bedroom in the 
dean’s house, his own arm-chair in the dean’s library, and 
his own corner on a sofa in Mrs. Dean’s drawing-room. It 
was not, therefore, necessary that he should interfere great- 


FBAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


441 


ly in this coming marriage ; but still it became his duty to 
say a word of congratulation to his granddaughter, and 
perhaps to say a word of advice. 

“ Grizzy, my dear,” he said to her — he always called her 
Grizzy, but the endearment of the appellation had never 
been appreciated by the young lady — “ come and kiss me, 
and let me congratulate you on your great promotion. 1 
do so very heartily.” 

“Thank you, grandpapa,” she said, touching his forehead 
Avith her lips, thus being, as it Avere, very sparing with her 
kiss. But those lips iioav Avere august and reserved for 
nobler foreheads than that of an old cathedral hack ; for 
Mr. Harding still chanted the Litany from Sunday to Sun- 
day, unceasingly, standing at that w^ell-known desk in the 
cathedral choir, and Griselda had a thought in her mind 
that Avhen the Hartletop people should hear of the prac- 
tice, they would not be delighted. Dean and archdeacon 
might be very Avell, and if her grandfather had even been 
a prebendary she might have put up Avith him; but he 
had, she thought, almost disgraced his family in being, at 
his age, one of the Avorking menial clergy of the cathedral. 
She kissed him, therefore, sparingly, and resolved that her 
Avords Avith him should be feAV. 

“ You are going to be a great lady, Grizzy,” said he. 

“Umph!” said she. 

What Avas she to say Avhen so addressed ? 

“ And I hope you Avill be happy — and make others hap- 

py-” 

“ I hope I shall,” said she. 

“But always think most about the latter, my dear. 
Think about the happiness of those around you, and your 
own Avill come AAuthout thinking. You understand that, do 
you not ?” 

“ Oh yes, I understand,” she said» 

As they Avere speaking Mr. Harding still held her hand, 
but Griselda left it Avith him unwillingly, and therefore un- 
graciously, looking as though she Avere dragging it from 
him. 

“ And, Grizzy, I believe it is quite as easy for a rich 
countess to be happy as for a dairy-maid — ” 

Griselda gave her head a little chuck, which Avas pro- 
duced by two different operations . of her mind. The first 
Avas a reflection that her grandpapa Avas robbing her of her 
T 2 


442 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


rank ; she was to be a rich marchioness. And the second 
was a feeling of anger at the old man for comparing her 
lot to that of a dairy-maid. 

“ Quite as easy, I believe,” continued he, “ though others 
will tell you that it is not so. But with the countess as 
with the dairy-maid, it must depend on the woman herself. 
Being a countess — that fact alone won’t make you happy.” 

“ Lord Dumbello at present is only a viscount,” said 
Griselda. “ There’s no earl’s title in the family.” 

“ Oh ! I did not know,” said Mr. Harding, relinquishing 
his granddaughter’s hand ; and, after that, he troubled her 
with no farther advice. 

Both Mrs. Proudie and the bishop had called at Plum- 
stead since Mrs. Grantly had come back from London, and 
the ladies from Plumstead, of course, returned the visit. It 
was natural that the Grantlys and Proudies should hate 
each other. They were essentially Church people, and 
their views on all Church matters were antagonistic. They 
had been compelled to fight for supremacy in the diocese, 
and neither family had so conquered the other as to have 
become capable of magnanimity and good-humor. They 
did hate each other, and this hatred had, at one time, almost 
produced an absolute disseverance of even the courtesies 
which are so necessary between a bishop and his clergy. 
But the bitterness of this rancor had been overcome, and 
the ladies of the families had continued on visiting terms. 

But now this match was almost more than Mrs. Proudie 
could bear. The great disappointment which, as she well 
knew, the Grantlys had encountered in that matter of the 
proposed new bishopric had for the moment mollified her. 
She had been able to talk of poor dear Mrs. Grantly ! “ She 
is heartbroken, you know, in this matter, and the repetition 
of such misfortunes is hard to bear,” she had been heard 
to say, with a complacency which had been quite becom- 
ing to her. But now that complacency was at an end. 
Olivia Proudie had just accepted a widowed preacher at a 
district church in Bethnal Green — a man with three chil- 
dren, who was dependent on pew-rents; and Griselda 
Grantly was engaged to the eldest son of the Marquis of 
Hartletop! When women are enjoined to forgive their 
enemies, it can not be intended that such wrongs as these 
should be included. 

But Mrs. Proudie’s courage was nothing daunted. It 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


443 


may be boasted of her that nothing could daunt her cour- 
age. Soon after, her return to Barchester, she and Olivia 
— Olivia being very unwilling — had driven over to Plum- 
stead, and, not finding the Grantlys at home, had left their 
cards ; and now', at a proper interval, Mrs. Grantly and Gri- 
selda returned the visit. It was the first time that Miss 
Grantly had been seen by the Proudie ladies since the fact 
of her engagement had become known. 

The first bevy of compliments that passed might be liken- 
ed to a crowd of flowers on a hedge rose-bush. They were 
beautiful to the eye, but -were so closely environed by 
thorns that they could not be plucked without great dan- 
ger. As long as the compliments w'ere allowed to remain 
on the hedge — w'hile no attempt was made to garner them 
and realize their fruits for enjoyment, they did no mischief ; 
but the first finger that was put forth for such a purpose 
was soon drawn back, marked with spots of blood. 

“ Of course it is a great match for Griselda,” said Mrs. 
Grantly, in a whisper, the meekness of which Avould have 
disarmed an enemy whose weapons were less firmly clutch- 
ed than those of Mrs. Proudie ; “ but, independently of 
that, the connection is one which is gratifying in many 
W'ays.” 

“ Oh, no doubt,” said Mrs. Proudie. 

“ Lord Dumbello is so completely his own master,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Grantly, and a slight, unintended semi-tone of 
triumph mingled itself with the meekness of that whisper. 

“And is likely to remain so, from all I hear,” said Mrs. 
Proudie, and the scratched hand was at once drawn back. 

“ Of course the estab — ” and then Mrs. Proudie, who 
was. blandly continuing her list of congratulations, whis- 
pered her sentence close into the ear of Mrs. Grantly, so 
that not a word of what she said might be audible by the 
young people. 

“I never heard a word of it,” said Mrs. Grantly, gather- 
ing herself up, “ and I don’t believe it.” 

“ Oh, I may be wrong, and Pm sure I hope so. But 
young men will be young men, you know, and children 
will take after their parents. I suppose you will see a 
great deal of the Duke of Omnium now.” 

But Mrs. Grantly was not a woman to be knocked down 
and trampled on without resistance ; and, though she had 
been lacerated by the rose-bush, she was not as yet placed 


444 


FKAMLEY TARSONAGE. 


altogether hors de combat. She said sorne word about the 
Duke of Omnium very tranquilly, speaking of him merely 
as a Barsetshire proprietor, and then, smiling with her 
sweetest smile, expressed a hope that she might soon have 
the pleasure of becoming acquainted with Mr. Tickler ; and 
as she spoke she made a pretty little bow toward Olivia 
Proudie. Now Mr. Tickler was the worthy clergyman at- 
tached to the district church at Bethnal Green. 

“ He’ll be down here in August,” said Olivia, boldly, de- 
termined not to be shamefaced about her love affairs. 

“ You’ll be starring it about-the Continent by that time, 
my dear,” said Mrs. Proudie to Griselda. “ Lord Dum- 
bello is well known at Homburg and Ems, and places of 
that sort, so you will find yourself quite at honie.”^ 

“We are going to Rome,” said Griselda, majestically. 

“I suppose Mr. Tickler will come into the diocese soon,” 
said Mrs.Grantly. “I remember hearing him very favor- 
ably spoken of by Mr. Slope, who was a friend of his.” 

Nothing short of a fixed resolve on the part of Mrs. 
Grantly that the time had now come in which she must 
throw away her shield and stand behind her sword, declare 
war to the knife, and. neither give nor take quarter, could 
have justified such a speech as this. Any allusion to Mr. 
Slope acted on ]\Irs. Proudie as a red cloth is supposed to 
act on a bull ; but when that allusion connected the name 
of Mr. Slope in a friendly bracket with that of Mrs. Proudie’s 
future son-in-law, it might be certain that the effect would 
be' terrific. And there was more than this ; for that very 
Mr. Slope had once entertained audacious hopes— hopes not 
thought to be audacious by the young lady herself — with 
reference to Miss Olivia Proudie. All this Mrs. Grantly 
knew, and, knowing it, still dared to mention his name. 

The countenance of Mrs. Proudie became darkened with 
black anger, and the polished smile of her company man- 
ners gave place before the outraged feelings of her nature. 

“ The man you speak of, Mrs. Grantly,” said she, “ was 
never known as a friend by Mr. Tickler.” 

“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Grantly. “Perhaps I have* 
made a mistake. I am sure I have heard Mr. Slope men- 
tion him.” 

“ When Mr. Slope was running after your sister, Mrs. 
Grantly, and was encouraged by her as he was, you per- 
haps saw more of him than I did.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


445 


“ Mrs. Proudie, that was never the case.” 

“ I have reason to know that the archdeacon conceived 
it to be so, and that he was very unhappy about it.” Now 
this, unfortunately, was a fact which Mrs. Grantly could 
not deny. 

“The archdeacon may have been mistaken about Mr. 
Slope,” she said, “ as were some other people at Barchester. 
But it was you, I think, Mrs. Proudie, who were responsi- 
ble for bringing him here.” 

Mrs. Grantly, at this period of the engagement, might 
have inflicted a fatal wound by referring to poor Olivia’s 
former love afiairs, but she was not destitute of generosity. 
Even in the extremest heat of the battle she knew how to 
spare the young and tender. 

“ When I came here, Mi»s. Grantly, I little dreamed what 
a depth of wickedness might be found in the very close of 
a cathedral city,” said Mrs. Proudie. 

“ Then, for dear Olivia’s sake, pray do not bring poor 
Mr. Tickler to Barchester.” 

“ Mr. Tickler, Mrs. Grantly, is a man of assured morals 
and of a highly religious tone of thinking. I wish every 
one could be so safe as regards their daughters’ future 
prospects as I am.” 

“Yes, I know he has the advantage of being a family 
man,” said Mrs. Grantly, getting up. “ Gooimorning, 
Mrs. Proudie ; good-day, Olivia.” 

“ A great deal better that than — ” But the blow fell 
upon the empty air, for Mrs. Grantly had already escaped 
on to the staircase, while Olivia was ringing the bell for 
the servant to attend the front door. 

Mrs. Grantly, as she got into her carriage, smiled slight- 
ly, thinking of the battle, and as she sat down she gently 
pressed her daughter’s hand. But Mrs. Proudie’s face was 
still dark as Acheron when her enemy withdrew, and with 
angry tone she sent her daughter to her work. “ Mr. 
Tickler will have great reason to complain if, in your posi- 
tion, you indulge such habits of idleness,” she said. There- 
fore I conceive that I am justified in saying that in that 
encounter Mrs. Grantly was the conqueror. 


446 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

DON QUIXOTE. 

On the day on which Lucy had her interview with Lady 
Lufton the dean dined at Framley Parsonage. He and 
Robarts had known each other since the latter had been in 
the diocese, and now, owing to Mark’s preferment in the 
chapter, had become almost intimate. The dean was great- 
ly pleased with the manner in which poor Mr. Crawley’s 
children had been conveyed away from Hogglestock, and 
was inclined to open his heart tt) the whole Framley house- 
hold. As he still had to ride home he could only allow 
himself to remain half an hour after dinner, but in that half 
hour he said a» great deal about Crawley, complimented 
Robarts on the manner in which he was playing the part 
of the Good Samaritan, and then, by degrees, informed him 
that it had come to his, the dean’s ears, before he left Bar- 
chester, that a writ was in the hands of certain persons in 
the city, enabling them to seize — he did not know w^hether 
it was the person or the property of the vicar of Framley. 

The fact w’as that these tidings had been conveyed to 
the dean with the express intent that he might put Ro- 
barts on his guard ; but the task of speaking on such a sub- 
ject to a brother clergyman had been so unj^leasant to him 
that he had been unable to introduce it till the last live 
minutes before his departure. 

“ I hope you will not put it down as an impertinent in- 
terference,” said the dean, apologizing. 

“Ho,” said Mark, “no, I do not think that.” He was 
so sad at heart that he hardly knew how to speak of it. 

“ I do not understand much about such matters,” said 
the dean ; “ but I think, if I were you, I should go to a 
lawyer. I should imagine that any thing so terribly dis- 
agreeable as an arrest might be avoided.” 

“ It is a hard case,” said Mark, pleading his own cause. 
“ Though these men have this claim against me, I have 
never received a shilling either in money or money’s 
worth.” 

“And yet your name is to the bills !” said the dean. 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


447 


“ Yes, my name is to the bills, certainly, but it was to 
oblige a friend.” 

And then the dean, having given his advice, rode away. 
He could not understand how a clergyman, situated as was 
Mr. Robarts, could find himself called upon by friendship 
to attach his name to accommodation bills which he had 
not the pow^r of liquidating when due ! 

On that evening they were both wretched enough at the 
Parsonage. Hitherto Mark had hoped that perhaps, after 
all, no absolutely hostile steps would be taken against him 
with reference to these bills. Some unforeseen chance 
might occur in his favor, or the persons holding them might 
consent to take small installments of j^ayment from time to 
time; but now it seemed that the evil day was actually 
coming upon him at a blow. He had no longer any secrets 
from ins wife. Should he go to a lawyer? and if so, to 
what lawyer ? And when he had found his lawyer, what 
should he say to him ? Mrs. Robarts at one time suggest- 
ed that every thing should be told to Lady Lufton. Mark, 
however, could not bring himself to do that. “ It would 
seem,” he said, “ as though I wanted her to lend me the 
money.” 

On the following morning Mark did ride into Barchester, 
dreading, however, lest he should be arrested on his jour- 
ney, and he did see a lawyer. During his absence two 
calls were made at the Parsonage: one by a very rough- 
looking individual, who left a suspicious document in the 
hands of the servant, j^urporting to be an invitation — not 
to dinner — from one of the judges of the land; and the 
other call was made by Lady Lufton in person. 

Mrs. Robarts had determined to go down to Framley 
Court on that day. In accordance with her usual custom, 
she would have been there within an hour or two of Lady 
Lufton’s return from London, but things between them 
were not now as they usually had been. This affair of 
Lucy’s must make a difference, let them both resolve to 
the contrary as they may. And, indeed, Mrs. Robarts had 
found that the. closeness of her intimacy with Framley 
Court had been diminishing from day to day since Lucy 
had first begun to be on friendly terms with Lord Lufton. 
Since that she had been less at Framley Court than usual; 
she had heard from Lady Lufton less frequently by letter 
during her absence than she had done in former years, and 


448 


FKAMLEY I’AKSONAGE. 


was aware that she was less implicitly trusted with all the 
alFairs of the parish. This had not made her angry, for she 
was in a manner conscious that it must be so. It made 
her unhappy, but what could she do ? She could not blame 
Lucy, nor could she blame Lady Lufton. Lord Lufton she 
did blame, but she did so in the hearing of no one but her 
husband. 

Her mind, however, was made up to go over and bear 
the first brunt of her ladyship’s arguments, when she was 
stopped by her ladyship’s arrival. If it were not for this 
terrible matter of Lucy’s love — a matter on which they 
could not now be silent when they met — there would be 
twenty subjects of pleasant, or, at any rate, not unpleasant 
conversation. But even then there would be those terri- 
ble bills hanging over her conscience, and almost crushing 
her by their Aveight. At the moment in which Lady Luf- 
ton Avalked up to the drawing-room Avindow, Mrs. Robarts 
held in her hand that ominous invitation from the judge. 
Would it not be well that she should make a clean breast 
of it all, disregarding Avhat her husband had said? It 
might be Avell; only this — she had never yet done any thing 
in opposition to her husband’s wishes. So she hid the slip 
Avithin her desk, and left the matter open to consideration. 

The interview commenced Avith an aftectionate embrace, 
as was a matter of course. “Dear Fanny,” and “Dear 
Lady Lufton,” was said between them with all the usual 
Avarmth. And then the first inquiry was made about the 
children, and the second about the school. For a minute 
or tAvo Mrs. Robarts thought that, perhaps, nothing was to 
be said about Lucy. If it pleased Lady Lufton to be si- 
lent, she, at least, would not commence the subject. 

Then there Avas a Avord or two spoken about Mrs.Podg- 
ens’ baby, after Avhich Lady Lufton asked whether Fanny 
were alone. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Robarts. “ Mark has gone over to 
Barchester.” 

“ I hope he will not be long before he lets me see him. 
Perhaps he can call to-morrow. Would you both come 
and dine to-morroAV ?” 

“Not to-morroAV, I think, Lady Lufton ; but Mark, I am 
sure, will go over and call.” 

“ And Avhy not come to dinner ? I hope there is to be 
no change among us, eh, Fanny ?” and Lady Lufton, as she 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


449 


spoke, looked into the other’s face in a manner which al- 
most made Mrs. Robarts get up and throw herself on her 
old friend’s neck. Where was she to find a friend who 
would give her such constant love as she had received from 
Lady Lufton ? And who was kinder, better, more honest 
than she ? 

“ Change ! no, I hope not. Lady Lufton and, as she 
spoke, the tears stood in her eyes. 

“ Ah ! but I shall think there is if you will not come to 
me as you used to do. You always used to come and dine 
wdth me the day I came home, as a matter of course.” 

What could she say, poor woman, to this ? 

“We were all in confusion yesterday about poor Mrs. 
Crawley, and the dean dined here ; he had been over at 
Hogglestock to see his friend.” 

“ I have heard of her illness, and will go over and see 
what ought to be done. Don’t you go, do you hear, Fan- 
ny? You with your young children! I should never for- 
give you if you did.” 

And then Mrs. Robarts explained how Lucy had gone 
there, had sent the four children back to Framley, and was 
herself now staying at Hogglestock with the object of 
nursing Mrs. Crawley. In telling the story she abstained 
from praising Lucy with all the strong language which she 
would have used had not Lucy’s name and character been 
at the present moment of peculiar import to LadJ^ Lufton ; 
but, nevertheless, she could not tell it without dwelling 
much on Lucy’s kindness. It would have been ungenerous 
to Lady Lufton to make much of Lucy’s virtue at this pres- 
ent moment, but unjust to Lucy to make nothing of it. 

“ And she is actually with Mrs. Crawley now ?” asked 
Lady Lufton. 

“ Oh yes, Mark left her there yesterday afternoon.” 

“ And the four children are all here in the house ?” 

“Not exactly in the house — that is, not as yet. We 
have arranged a sort of quarantine hospital over the coach- 
house.” 

“ What, where Stubbs lives ?” 

“ Yes ; Stubbs and his wife have come into the house, 
and the children are to remain up there till the doctor says 
that there is no danger of infection. I have not seen my 
visitors myself as yet,” said Mrs. Robarts, with a slight 
laugh. 


450 


FEAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


“Dear me!” said Lady Lufton. “I declare you have 
been very prompt. And so Miss Robarts is over there! 
I should have thought Mr. Crawley would have made a 
difficulty about the children.” 

“ Well, he did ; but they kidnapped them — that is, Lucy 
and Mark did. The dean gave me such an account of it. 
Lucy brought them out by two’s and packed them in the 
])ony carriage, and then Mark drove off at a gallop while 
' Mr. Crawley stood calling to them in the road. The dean 
was there at the time, and saw it all.” 

“ That Miss Lucy of yours seems to be a very determ- 
ined young lady when she takes a thing into her head,” 
said Lady Liufton, now sitting down for the first time. 

“ Yes, she is,” said Mrs. Robarts, having laid aside all 
her pleasant animation for the discussion which she dread- 
ed was now at hand. 

“ A very determined young lady,” continued Lady Luf- 
ton. “ Of course, my dear Fanny, you know all this about 
• Ludovic and your sister-in-law ?” 

“Yes, she has told me about it.” 

“ It is very unfortunate— very.” 

“ I do not think Lucy has been to blame,” said Mrs. Ro- 
barts; and as she spoke the blood was already mounting 
to her cheeks. 

“ Do not be too anxious to defend her, my dear, before 
any one %ccuses her. Whenever a person does that, it 
looks as though their cause were weak.” 

“ But my cause is not weak as far as Lucy is concerned ; 
I feel quite sure that she has not been to blame.” 

“ I know how obstinate you can be, Fanny, when you 
think it necessary to dub yourself any one’s champion. 
Don Quixote was not a better knight-errant than you are. 
But is it not a pity to take up your lance and shield before 
an enemy is within sight or hearing ? But that was ever 
the way with your Don Quixotes.” 

“Perhaps there may be an enemy in ambush.” That 
was Mrs. Robarts’ thought to herself, but she did not dare 
to express it, so she remained silent. 

“ My only hope is,” continued Lady Lufton, “ that when 
my back is turned you fight as gallantly for me.” 

“ Ah ! you are never under a cloud, like poor Lucy.” 

“ Am I not ? But, Fanny, you do not see all the clouds. 
The sun does not always shine for any of us, and the down- 


TEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


451 


pouring rain and the heavy wind scatter also my fairest 
dowers, as they have done hers, poor girl. Dear Fanny, I 
hope it may be long before any cloud comes across the 
brightness of your heaven. Of all the creatures I know, 
you are the one most fitted for quiet continued sunshine.” 

And then Mrs. Robarts did get up and embrace her 
friend, thus hiding the tears which were running down her 
face. Continued sunshine indeed ! A dark spot had al- 
ready gathered on her horizon which was likely to^fall in 
a very Avaterspout of rain. What was to come of that ter- 
rible notice which was now lying in the desk under Lady 
Lufton’s very arm ? 

“ But I am not come here to croak like an old raven,” 
continued Lady Lufton, when she had brought this em- 
brace to an end. “ It is probable that we all may have our 
sorrows ; but I am quite sure of this — that if we endeavor 
to do our duties honestly, we shall all find our consolation 
and all have our joys also. And now, my dear, let you and 
I say a few words about this unfortunate affair. It would 
not be natural if we were to hold our tongues to each oth- 
er, would it ?” 

“ I suppose not,” said Mrs. Robarts. 

“ We should always be conceiving worse than the truth 
— each as to the other’s thoughts. Now, some time ago, 
when I spoke to you about your sister-in-law and Ludovic 
— I dare say you remember — ” 

“ Oh yes, I remember — ” 

“We both thought then that there would really be no 
danger. To tell you the plain truth, I fancied, and indeed 
hoped, that his affections were engaged elsewhere ; but I 
was altogether ’ wrong then — wrong in thinking it, and 
wrong in hoping it.” 

Mrs. Robarts knew well that Lady Lufton was alluding 
to Griselda Grantly, but she conceived that it would be 
discreet to say nothing herself on that subject at present. 
She remembered, however, Lucy’s flashing eye when the 
possibility of Lord Lufton making such a marriage was 
spoken of in the pony carriage, and could not but feel glad 
that Lady Lufton had been d^isappointed. 

“I do not at all impute any blame to Miss Robarts for 
what has occurred since,” continued her ladyship. “ I wish 
you distinctly to understand that.” 

“ I do not see how any one could blame her. She has 
behaved so nobly.” 


452 


FEAMLEY TAESONAGE. 


“ It is of no use inquiring whether any one can. It is 
sufficient that I do not.” 

“ But I think that is hardly sufficient,” said Mrs. Ro- 
barts, pertinaciously. 

“ Is it not ?” asked her ladyship, raising her eyebrows. 

“No. Only think what Lucy has done and is doing. 
If she had chosen to say that she would accept your son, 
I really do not know how you could have justly blamed 
her. I do not by any means say that I would have advised 
such a thing.” 

“ I am glad of that, Fanny.” 

“ I have not given aqy advice, nor is it needed. I know 
no one more able than Lucy to see clearly, by her own 
judgment, wffiat course she ought to pursue. I should be 
afraid to advise one whose mind is so strong, and who, of 
her own nature, is so self-denying as she is. She is sacri- 
ficing herself now, because she will not be the means of 
bringing trouble and dissension between you and your son. 
If you ask me. Lady Lufton, I think you owe her a deep 
debt of gratitude. I do indeed. And as for blaming her 
— Avhat has she done that you possibly could blame ?” 

“ Don Quixote on horseback !” said Lady Lufton. “ Fan- 
ny, I shall always call you Don Quixote, and some day or 
other I will get somebody to write your adventures. But 
the truth is this, my dear, there has been imprudence. You 
may call it mine if you will, though I really hardly see how 
I am to take the blame. I could not do other than ask 
Miss Robarts to my house, and I could not very well turn 
my son out of it. In point of fact, it has been the old story.” 

“ Exactly ; the story that is as old as the world, and 
which will continue as long as people are born into it. It 
is a story of God’s own telling !” 

“ But, my dear child, you do not mean that every young 
gentleman and every young lady should fall in love with 
each other directly they meet ! Such a doctrine would be 
very inconvenient.” 

“No, I do not mean that. Lord Lufton and Miss Grant- 
ly did not fall in love wdth each other, though you meant 
them to do so. But was it not quite as natural that Lord 
Lufton and Lucy should do so instead?” 

“ It is generally thought, Fanny, that young ladies should 
not give loose to their affections until they have been cer- 
tified of their friends’ approval.” 


fra:mley paksonage. 


453 


“ And that young gentlemen of fortune may amuse them- 
selves as they please ! I know that is what the world 
teaches, but I can not agree to the justice of it. The ter- 
rible suffering which Lucy has to endure makes me cry out 
.gainst it. She did not seek your son. The moment she 
began to suspect that there might be danger she avoided 
him scrupulously. She would not go down to Framley 
Court, though her not doing so Avas remarked by yourself. 
She would hardly go out about the place lest she should 
meet him. She Avas contented to put herself altogether in 
the background till he should have pleased to leave the 
• place. But he — he came to her here, and insisted on see- 
ing her. He found her when I Avas out, and declared him- 
self determined to speak to her. What was she to do ? 
She did try to escape, but he stopped her at the door. 
Was it her fault that he made her an offer?” 

“ My dear, no one has said so.” 

“Yes, but you do say so Avhen you tell me that young 
ladies should not give play to their affections without per- 
mission. He persisted in saying to her, here, all that it 
pleased him, though she implored him to be silent. I can 
not tell the words she used, but she did implore him.” 

“ I do not doubt that she behaved Avell.” 

“But he — ^he persisted, and begged her to accept his 
hand. She refused him then. Lady Lufton — not as some 
girls do, with a mock reserve, not intending to be taken at 
their words, but steadily, and, God forgive her, untruly. 
Knowing what your feelings would be, and knoAving what 
the world would say, she declared to him that he Avas in- 
different to her. What more could she do in your be- 
half?” And then Mrs. Robarts paused. 

“ I shall Avait till you have done, Fanny.” 

“ You spoke of girls giving loose to their affections. She 
did not do so. She went about her work exactly as she 
had done before. She did not even speak to me of what 
had passed — not then, at least. She determined that it 
should all be as though it had never been. She had learn- 
ed to love your son ; but that was her misfortune, and she 
would get over it as she might. Tidings came to us here 
that he Avas engaged, or about to engage himself, to Miss 
Grantly.” 

“ Those tidings Avere untrue.” 

“Yes, Ave knoAV that noAV^, but she did not knoAV it then. 


454 


FKAMLEY TAKSONAGE. 


Of course she could not but suffer, but she suffered within 
herself.” Mrs. Robarts, as she said this, remembered the 
pony carriage, and how Puck had been beaten. “She 
made no complaint that he had ill-treated her — not even 
to herself. She had thought it right to reject his offer, aiM 
there, as far as he was concerned, was to be an end of it.^ 

“ That would be a matter of course, I should suppose.” 

“ But it w^as not a matter of course. Lady Lufton. He 
returned from London to Framley on purpose to repeat his 
offer. He sent for her brother — You talk of a young 
lady waiting for her friends’ apj)roval. In this matter, 
who would be Lucy’s friends ?” 

“You and Mr. Robarts, of course.” 

“ Exactly : her only friends. Well, Lord Lufton sent for 
Mark and repeated his offer to him. Mind you, Mark had 
never heard a word of this before, and you may guess 
whether or no he was surjmsed. Lord Lufton repeated 
his offer in the most formal manner, and claimed permis- 
sion to see Lucy. She refused to see him. She has never 
seen him since that day when, in opposition to all her ef- 
forts, he made his way into this room. Mark — as I think 
very properly — would have allowed Lord Lufton to come 
up here. Looking at both their ages and position, he could 
have had no right to forbid it. But Lucy positively re- 
fused to see your son, and sent him a message instead, of 
the purport of which you are now aware — that she would 
never accept him unless she did so at your request.” 

“ It was a very proper message.” 

“I say nothing about that. Had she accepted him I 
would not have blamed her, and so I told her, Lady Luf- 
ton.” 

“ I can not understand your saying that, Fanny.” 

“Well, I did say so. I don’t want to argue now about 
myself, whether I was right or wrong, but I did say so. 
Whatever sanction I could give she would have had. But 
she again chose to sacrifice herself, although I believe she 
regards him with as true a love as ever a girl felt for a 
man. Upon my word, I don’t know that she is right. 
Those considerations for the world may perhaps be carried 
too far.” 

“ I think that she was perfectly right.” 

“ Very well. Lady Lufton ; I can understand that. But, 
after such sacrifice on her part — a sacrifice made entirely 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


455 


to you — bow can you talk of ‘ not blaming her T Is that 
the language in which you speak of those whose conduct 
from first to last has been superlatively excellent? If she 
is open to blame at all, it is — it is — ” 

But here Mrs. Robarts stopped herself. In defending 
her- sister she had worked herself almost into a passion ; 
but such a state of feeling was not customary to her, and 
now that she had spoken her mind she sank suddenly into 
silence. 

‘‘ It seems to me, Fanny, that you almost regret Miss Ro- 
barts’ decision,” said Lady Lufton. 

“ My wish in this matter is for her happiness, and I re- 
gret any thing that may mar it.” 

“You think nothing, then, of our welfare; and yet I do 
not know to whom I might have looked for hearty friend- 
ship and for sympathy in difficulties, if not to you.” 

Poor Mrs. Robarts was almost upset by this. A few 
months ago, before Lucy’s arrival, she would have declared 
that the interests of Lady Lufton’s family would have been 
paramount with her, after and next to those of her own 
husband. And even now it seemed to argue so black an 
ingratitude on her part — this accusation that she was in- 
different to them ! From her childhood upward she had 
revered and loved Lady Lufton, and for years had taught 
herself to regard her as an epitome of all that was good 
and gracious in woman. Lady Lufton’s theories of life 
had been accepted by her as the right theories, and those 
whom Lady Lufton had liked she had liked. *I3ut now it 
seemed that all these ideas which it had taken a life to build 
up were to be thrown to the ground, because she was 
bound to defend a sister-in-law whom she had only known 
for the last*eight months. It was not that she regretted 
a word that she had spoken on Lucy’s behalf. Chance had 
thrown her and Lucy together, and, as Lucy was her sis- 
ter, she should receive from her a sister’s treatment. But 
she did not the less feel how terrible would be the effect 
of any disseverance from Lady Lufton. 

“ Oh Lady Lufton,” she said, “ do not say that.” 

“ But, Fanny, dear, I must speak as I find. You were 
talking about clouds just now, and do you think that all 
this is not a cloud in my sky ? Ludovic tells me that he is 
attached to Miss Robarts, and you tell me that she is at- 
tached to him, and I am called upon to decide between 
them. Her very act obliges me to do so.” 


456 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Dear Lady Lufton !” said Mrs.Robarts, springing from 
her seat. It seemed to her at the moment as though the 
whole difficulty were to be solved by an act of grace on 
the part of her old friend. 

“ And yet I can not approve of such a marriage,” said 
Lady Lufton. 

Mrs. Ilobarts returned to her seat, saying nothing far- 
ther. 

“ Is not that a cloud on one’s horizon ?” continued her 
ladyship. “Do you think that I can be basking in the 
sunshine while I have such a weight upon my heart as that. 
Ludovic will soon be home, but instead of looking to his 
return with pleasure I dread it. I would prefer that he 
should remain in Norway. I would wish that he should 
stay away for months. And, Fanny, it is a great addition 
to my misfortune to feel that you do not sympathize with 
mo.” 

Having said this, in a slow, sorrowful, and severe tone. 
Lady Lufton got up and took her departure. Of course 
Mrs. Robarts did not let her go without assuring her that 
she did sympathize with her — did love her as she ever had 
loved her. But wounds can not be cured as easily as they 
may be inflicted, and Lady Lufton went her way with much 
real sorrow at her heart. She was proud and masterful, 
fond of her own way, and much too careful of the worldly 
dignities to Avhich her lot had called her; but she was a 
woman who^ could cause no sorrow to those she loved with- 
out deep sorrow to herself. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

TOUCHING PITCH. 

In these hot midsummer days, the end of June and the 
beginning of July, Mr. Sowerby had but an uneasy time of 
it. At his sister’s instance, he had hurried up to London, 
and there had remained for days in attendance on the law- 
yers. Lie had to see new lawyers. Miss Dunstable’s men 
of business, quiet old cautious gentlemen, whose place of 
business was in a dark alley behind the Bank, Messrs. Slow 
and Bideawhile by name, who had no scruple in detaining 
him for hours while they or their clerks talked to him about 
any thing or about nothing. It was of vital consequence 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


457 


to Mr. Sowerby that this business of liis should be settled 
Avithout delay, and yet these men, to whose care this set- 
tling Avas now confided, Avent on as though laAY processes 
Avere a sunny bank on Avhich it delighted men to bask easi- 
ly. And then, too, he had to go more than once to South 
Audley Street, Avhich AAms a AAmrse infliction; for the men 
in South Audley Street Avere less civil noAV than had been 
their Avont. It Avas well understood there that Mr. Soav- 
erby Avas no longer a client of the duke’s, but his oppo- 
nent ; no longer his nominee and dependent, but his enemy 
in the county. “ Chaldicotes,” as old Mr. Gumption re- 
marked to young Mr. Gagebec, “Chaldicotes, Gagebee, is 
a cooked goose, as far as Sowerby is concerned. And Avhat 
difierence could it make to him Avhether the duke is to own 
it or Miss Dunstable? For my part, I can not understand 
hoAV a gentleman like Sowerby can like to see his property 
go into the hands of a gallipot Avench Avhose money still 
smells of bad drugs. And nothing can be more ungrate- 
ful,” he said, “than SoAverby’s conduct.. He has heid the 
county for five-and-tAventy years Avithout expense, and noAv 
that the time for payment has come, he begrudges the 
price.” He called it no better than cheating, he did not — 
he, Mr. Gumption. According to his ideas, Sowerby was 
attempting to cheat the duke. It may be imagined, there- 
fore, that Mr. SoAverby did not feel any A’ery great delight 
in attending at South Audley Street. 

And then rumor was spread about among all the bill- 
discounting leeches that blood Avas once more to be sucked 
from the SoAverby carcase. The rich Miss Dunstable had 
taken up his affairs ; so much as that became known in the 
purlieus of the Goat and Compasses. Tom Tozer’s brother 
declared that she and Sowerby were going to make a match 
of it, and that any scrap of paper Avith Sowerby’s name on 
it AAmuld become Avorth its Aveight in bank-notes ; but Toni 
Tozer himself — Tom, Avho was the real hero of the family 
— pooh-poohed at this, screAving up his nose, and alluding 
in most contemptuous terms to his brother’s softness. He 
knew better — as Avas indeed the fact. Miss Dunstable 
Avas buying up the squire, and, by jingo ! she should buy 
them up — them, the Tozers, as Avell as others. They kneiv 
their A^alue, the Tozers did, Avhereupon they became more 
than ordinarily active. 

From them and all their brethren Mr. Sowerby at this 

U 


458 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


time endeavored to keep his distance, but his endeavors 
were not altogether effectual. Whenever he could escape 
for a day or two from the lawyers, he ran down to Chaldi- 
cotes ; but Tom Tozer, in his perseverance, followed him 
there, and boldly sent in his name by the servant at the 
front door. 

“Mr. Sowerby is not just at home at the present mo- 
ment,” said the well-trained domestic. 

“ I’ll wait about then,” said Tom, seating himself on an 
heraldic stone griffin which flanked the big stone steps be- 
fore the house. And in this way Mr. Tozer gained his 
purpose. Sowerby was still contesting the county, and it 
behooved him not to let his enemies say that he was hid- 
ing himself. It had been a part of his bargain with Miss 
Dunstable that he should contest the county. She had 
taken it into her head that the duke had behaved badly, 
and slie had resolved that he should be made to pay for it. 
“Tlie duke,” she said, “had meddled long enough;” she 
would now see whether the Chaldicotes interest would not 
suffice of itself to return a member for the county, even in 
opposition to the duke. Mr. Sowerby himself was so har- 
assed at the time, that he would have given way on this 
point if he had had the power; but Miss Dunstable was 
determined, and he Avas obliged to yield to her. In this 
manner Mr. Tom Tozer succeeded and did make his Avay 
into Mr. Sowerby’s presence, of Avliich intrusion one effect 
Avas the folio Aving letter from Mr. SoAverby to his friend 
Mark Kobarts : 

“Chaldicotes, July, 185-. 

“ :Mt dear Kobarts, — I am so harassed at the present moment by 
an infinity of troubles of my own that I am almost callous to those of 
other people. They say that prosperity makes a man selfish. I have 
never tried that, but I am quite sure that adversity does so. Neverthe- 
less, I am anxious about those bills of yours” — 

“ Bills of mine !” said Robarts to himself, as he Avalked 
up and doAvn the shrubbery path at the Parsonage, read- 
ing this letter. This happened a day or two after his visit 
to the laAvyer at Barchester. 

“ — and would rejoice greatly if I thought that I could save you from 
any farther annoyance about them. That kite, Tom Tozer, has just 
been with me, and insists that both of them shall be paid. lie knows — ■ 
no one better — that no consideration was given for the latter. But he 
knows also that the dealing was not witli him, nor even with his brotli- 
er, and he will be prepared to swear that lie gave value for both. lie 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


459 


would swear any thing for five hundred pounds — or for half the money, 
for that matter. I do not think that the father of mischief ever let loose 
upon the world a greater rascal than Tom Tozer. 

“He declares that nothing shall induce him to take one shilling less 
than the whole sum of nine hundred pounds. He has been brought to 
this by hearing that my debts are about to be paid. Heaven help me ! 
The meaning of that is that these wretched acres, which are now mort- 
gaged to one millionaire, are to change hands and be mortgaged to an- 
other instead. By this exchange I may possibly obtain the benefit of 
having a house to live in for the next twelve months, but no other. 
Tozer, however, is altogether wrong in his scent ; and the worst of it is, 
that his malice will fall on you rather than on me. 

“What I want you to do is this : let us pay him one hundred pounds 
between us. Though I sell the last sorry jade of a horse I have, I will 
make up fifty, and I know you can, at any rate, do as much as that. 
Then do you accept a bill, conjointly with me, for eight hundred. It 
shall be done in Forrest’s presence, and handed to him, and you shall 
receive back the two old bills into your own hands at the same time. 
This new bill should be timed to run ninety days, and I will move heav- 
en and earth during that time to have it included in the general sched- 
ule of my debts which are to be secured on the Chaldicotes property.” 

The meaning of which was that Miss Dunstable was to be 
cozened into paying the money under an idea that it was 
part of the sum covered by the existing mortgage. 

“What you said the other day at Barchester as to never executing 
another bill is very well as regards future transactions. Nothing can be 
wiser than such a resolution. But it would be folly — worse than folly — 
if you were to allow your furniture to be seized when the means of pre- 
venting it is so ready to your hand. By leaving the new bill in For- 
rest’s hands you may be sure that you are safe from the claws of such 
birds of prey as these Tozers. Even if I can not get it settled when tho 
three months are over, Forrest will enable you to make any arrangement 
that may be most convenient. 

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, do not refuse this. You can 
hardly conceive how it weighs upon me, this fear that bailiffs should 
make their way into your wife’s drawing-room. I know you think ill 
of me, and I do not wonder at it. But you would be less inclined to do 
so if you knew how terribly I am punished. Pray let me hear that you 
will do as I counsel you. 

“Yours always faithfully, N. Sowerby.” 

In answer to which the parson wrote a very short reply *. 

“Framley, July, 185-. 

“My dear Sowerby, — I will sign no more bills on any considera- 
tion. Yours truly, Mark Robarts.” 

And then, having written this, and having shown it to his 
wife, he returned to the shrubbery walk and paced it up 
and down, looking every now and then at Sowerby’s lette/ 


460 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


as he thought over all the past circumstances of his friend- 
ship with that gentleman. 

That the man who had written this letter should be his 
friend — that very fact was a disgrace to him. Sowerby 
BO well knew himself and his own reputation, that he did 
not dare to suppose that his own word would be taken for 
any thing, not even when the thing promised was an act 
of the commonest honesty. “ The old bills shall be given 
back into your own hands,” he had declared with energy, 
knowing that his friend and correspondent would not feel 
himself secure against farther fraud under any less stringent 
guarantee. This gentleman, this county member, the own- 
er of Chaldicotes, with whom Mark Robarts had been so 
anxious to be on terms of intimacy, had now come to such 
a phase of life that he had given over speaking of himself 
as an honest man. He had become so used to suspicion 
that he argued of it as of a thing of course. He knew that 
no one could trust either his spoken or his written word, 
and he was content to speak and to write without attempt- 
ing to hide this conviction. 

And this was the man 'whom he had been so glad to call 
his friend ; for whose sake he had been willing to quarrel 
with Lady Lufton, and at whose instance he had uncon- 
sciously abandoned so many of the best resolutions of his 
life. He looked back now, as he walked there slowly, still 
holding the letter in his hand, to the day whep he had stop- 
ped at the school-house and written his letter to Mr. Sower- 
by, promising to join the party at Chaldicotes. He had 
been so eager then to have his own way, that he would not 
permit himself to go home and talk the matter over with 
his wife. He thought also of the manner in which he had 
been tempted to the house of the Duke of Omnium, and 
the conviction on his mind at the time that his giving ■way 
to that temptation would surely bring him to evil. And 
then he remembered the evening in Sowerby’s bedroom, 
when the bill had been brought out, and he had allowed 
himself to be persuaded to put his name upon it — not be- 
cause he was willing in this Avay to assist his friend, but 
because he was unable to refuse. He had lacked the cour- 
age to say “No,” though he knew at the time how gross 
was the error which he was committing. He had lacked 
the courage to say “No,” and hence had come upon him 
and on his household all this misery and cause for bitter 
repentance. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


4G1 


I have written much of clergymen, but in doing so I 
have endeavored to portray them as they bear on our so- 
cial life rather than to describe the mode and working of 
their professional careers. Had I done the latter, I could 
hardly have steered clear of subjects on which it has not 
been my intention to pronounce an opinion, and I should 
either have laden my fiction with sermons, or I should have 
degraded my sermons into fiction. Therefore I have said 
but little in my narrative of this man’s feelings or doings 
as a clergyman. 

But I must protest against its being on this account con- 
sidered that Mr. Robarts was indifierent to the duties of 
his clerical position. He had been fond of pleasure, and 
had given way to temptation, as is so customarily done by 
young men of six-and-twenty, who are placed beyond con- 
trol and who have means at command. Had he remained 
as a curate till that age, subject in all his movements to the 
eye of a superior, he would, we may say, have put his name 
to no bills, have ridden after no hounds, have seen nothing 
of the iniquities of Gatherum Castle. There are men of 
twenty-six as fit to stand alone as ever they will be — fit to 
be prime ministers, heads of schools, judges on the bench — 
almost fit to be bishops ; but Mark Robarts had not been 
one of them. He had within him many aptitudes for good, 
but not the strengthened courage of a man to act up to 
them. The stufl[* of which his manhood was to be formed 
had been slow of growth, as it is with many men, and, con- 
sequently, when temptation was ofiered to him, he had fall- 
en. 

But he deeply grieved over his own stumbling, and from 
time to time, as his periods of penitence came upon liirn, 
he resolved that he would once more put his shoulder to 
the wheel as became one who fights upon earth that battle 
for which he had put on his armor. Over and over again 
did he think of those words of Mr. Crawley, and now, as he 
walked up and down the path, crumpling Mr. Sowerby’s 
letter in his hand, he thought of them again : “ It is a ter- 
rible falling off; terrible in the fall, but doubly terrible 
through that difficulty of returning.” Yes, that is a diffi- 
culty which multiplies itself in a fearful ratio as one goes 
on pleasantly running down the path — whitherward ? Had 
it come to that with him that he could not return ? that he 
could never again hold up his head with a safe conscience 


462 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


as the pastor of his parish ? It was Sowerby who had led 
liim into this misery, who had brought on him this ruin. 
But then had not Sowerby paid him ? Had not that stall 
which he now held in Barchester been Sowerby’s gift? 
He was a poor man now — a distressed, poverty-stricken 
man ; but, nevertheless, he wished with all his heart that 
he, had never become a sharer in the good things of the 
Barchester chapter. 

“ I shall resign the stall,” he said to his wife that night. 
“ I think I may say that I have made up my mind as to 
that.” 

“ But, Mark, will not people say that it is odd ?” 

“I can not help it — they must say it. Fanny, I fear 
that we shall have to bear the saying of harder Avords than 
that.” 

“ Hobody can ever say that you have done any thing 
that is unjust or dishonorable. If there are such men as 
Mr. Sowerby — ” 

“ The blackness of his fault will not excuse mine.” And 
then again he sat silent, hiding his eyes, while his wife, sit- 
ting by him, held his hand. 

“ Don’t make yourself wretched, Mark. Matters will all 
come right yet. It can not be that the loss of a few hund- 
red pounds should ruin you.” 

“ It is not the money — it is not the money !” 

“ But you have done nothing wrong, Mark.” 

“ How am I to go into the church, and take my place 
before them all, when every one will know that bailiffs are 
in the house ?” And then, dropping his head on to the ta- 
ble, he sobbed aloud. 

Mark Hobarts’ mistake had been mainly this — he had 
thought to touch pitch and not to be defiled. He, looking 
out from his pleasant parsonage into the pleasant upper 
ranks of the world around him, had seen that men and 
things in those quarters were very engaging. His own 
parsonage, with his sweet wife, were exceedingly dear to 
him, and Lady Lufton’s aifectionate friendship had its value ; 
but were not these things rather dull for one who had lived 
in the best sets at Harrow and Oxford, unless, indeed, he 
could supplement them with some occasional bursts of 
more lively life ? Cakes and ale were as pleasant to his 
palate as to the palates of those Avith whom he had former- 
ly lived at college. He had the same eye to look at a 


TRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


463 


horse, and the same heart to make him go across a country 
as they. And then, too, he found that men liked him — • 
men and women also — men and women Avho were high in 
Avorldly standing.- His ass’s ears were tickled, and he learn- 
ed to fancy that he was intended by nature for the society 
of high people. It seemed as though he were following 
his appointed course in meeting men and women of the 
world at the houses of the fashionable and the rich. He 
was not the first clergyman that had so lived and had so 
prospered. Yes, clergymen had so lived, and had done 
their duties in their sphere of life altogether to the satis- 
faction of their countrymen — and of their sovereigns. 
Thus Mark Robarts had determined that he would touch 
pitch, and escape defilement if that were possible. With 
what result those who have read so far will have perceived. 

Late on the following afternoon, who should drive up to 
the Parsonage door but Mr. Forrest, the bank managei 
from Barchester — Mr. Forrest, to whom Sowerby had al- 
ways pointed as the Deus ex machina who, if duly invoked- 
could relieve them all from their present troubles, and dis- 
miss the whole Tozer family — not howling into the wilder- 
ness, as one would have wished to do with that brood of 
Tozers, but so gorged with prey that fi’om them no farther 
annoyance need be dreaded. All this Mr. Forrest could 
do ; nay, more, most 'willingly w^ould do. Only let Mark 
Robarts put himself into the banker’s hand, and blandly 
sign what documents the banker might desire. 

“This is a very unpleasant affair,” said Mr. Forrest, as 
soon as they were closeted together in Mark’s bookroom ; 
in answer to which observation the parson acknowledged 
that it was a very unpleasant affair. 

“ Mr. Sowerby has managed to put you into the hands 
of about the worst set of rogues now existing, in their line 
of business, in London.” 

“ So I supposed ; Curling told me the same.” Curling 
w^as the Barchester attorney whose aid he had lately in- 
voked. 

“Curling has threatened them that he will expose their 
whole trade ; but one of them who was down here, a man 
named Tozer, replied that you had much more to lose by 
exposure than he had. He went farther, and declared that 
he would defy any jury in England to refuse him his mon- 
ey. He swore that he discounted both bills in the regular 


464 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


way of business ; and, though this is of course false, I fear 
that it will be impossible to prove it so. He well knows 
that you are a clergyman, and that, therefore, he has a 
stronger hold on you than on other men.” 

“The disgrace shall fall on Sowerby,” said Robarts, 
hardly actuated at the moment by any strong feeling of 
Christian forgiveness. 

“ I fear, Mr. Robarts, that he is somewhat in the condi- 
tion of the Tozers. He will not feel it as you will do.” 

“ I must bear it, Mr. Forrest, as best I may.” 

“ Will you allow me, Mr. Robarts; to give you my ad- 
vice. Perhaps I ought to apologize for intruding it upon 
you ; but as the bills have been presented and dishonored 
across my counter, 1 have, of necessity, become acquainted 
with the circumstances.” 

“ I am sure I am very much obliged to you,” said Mark. 

“ You must pay this money, or, at any rate, the most con- 
siderable portion of it — the whole of it, indeed, with such 
deduction as a lawyer may be able to induce these hawks 
to make on the sight of the ready money. Perhaps £750 
or £800 may see you clear of the whole affair.” 

“ But I have not a quarter of that sum lying by me.” 

“No, I sui^pose not; but what I would recommend is 
this: that you should borrow the money from the* bank on 
your own responsibility, with the joint security of some 
friend who may be willing to assist you with his name. 
Lord Lufton probably would do it.” 

“ No, Mr. Forrest — ” 

“Listen to me first, before you make up your mind. If 
you took this step, of course you would do so with the fixed 
intention of paying the money yourself, without any farther 
reliance on Sowerby or on any one else.” 

“ I shall not rely on Mr. Sowerby again, you may be sure 
of that.” 

“ What I mean is that you must teach yourself to recog- 
nize the debt as your own. If you can do that, with your 
income you can surely pay it, with interest, in two years. 
If Lord Lufton will assist you with his name, I will so ar- 
range the bills that the payments shall be made to fall 
equally over that period. In that Avay the world will know 
nothing about it, and in two years’ time you will once more 
be a free man. Many men, Mr. Robarts, have bought their 
experience much dearer than that, I can assure you.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


465 


“Mr. Forrest, it is quite out of the question.” 

“ You mean that Lord Lufton will not give you his name ?” 

“ I certainly shall not ask him ; but that is not all. In 
the first place, my income will not be what you think it, for 
I shall probably give up the prebend at Barchester.” 

“ Give up the prebend ! give up six hundred a year !” 

“ And, beyond this, I think I may say that nothing shall 
tempt me to put my name to another bill. I have learned 
a lesson w^hich I hope I may never forget.” 

“ Then what do you intend to do ?” 

“Nothing.” 

“ Then those men will sell every stick of furniture about 
the place. They know that your property here is enough 
to secure all that they claim.” 

“ If they have the j^ower, they must sell it.” 

“ And all the world will know the facts.” 

“ So it must be. Of the faults which a man commits he 
must bear the punishment. If it were only myself!” 

“ That’s where it is, Mr. Robarts. Think what your wife 
will have to suffer in going through such misery as that! 
You had better take my advice. Lord Lufton, I am sure — ” 

But the very name of Lord Lufton, his sister’s lover, 
again gave him courage. He thought, too, of the accusa- 
tions which Lord Lufton had brought against him on that 
night when he had come to him in the coffee-room of the 
hotel, and he felt that it was impossible that he should ap- 
ply to him for such aid. It would be better to tell all to 
Lady Lufton. That she would relieve him, let the cost to 
herself be what it might, he was very sure. Only this — 
that in looking to her for assistance he would be forced to 
bite the dust in very deed. 

“ Thank you, Mr. Forrest ; but I have made up my mind. 
Do nob think that I am the less obliged to you for your dis- 
interested kindness, for I know that it is disinterested ; but 
this I think I may confidently say, that not even to avert 
so terrible a calamity will I again put my name to any bill. 
Even if you could take my own promise to pay without 
the addition of any second name, I would not do it.” 

There was nothing for Mr. Forrest to do under such cir- 
cumstances but simply to drive back to Barchester. He 
had done the best for the young clergyman according to 
liis lights, and perhaps, in a worldly view, his advice had 
not been bad. But Mark dreaded the very name of a bill. 
U2 


466 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


He was as a dog that had been terribly scorched, and noth- 
ing should again induce him to go near the fire. 

“Was not that the man from the bank?” said Fanny, 
coming into the room when the sound of the wheels had 
died away. 

“ Yes ; Mr. Forrest.” 

“Well, dearest?” 

“We must prejDare ourselves for the worst.” 

“ You will not sign any more papers, eh, Mark ?” 

“ No ; I have just now positively refused to do so.” 

“ Then I can bear any thing. But, dearest, dearest Mark, 
v/ill you not let me tell Lady Lufton ?” 

Let them look at the matter in any way, the punishment 
was very heavy. 


CHAPTER XLHI. 

IS SHE NOT INSIGNIFICANT? 

And now a month went by at Framley Tvithout any in- 
crease of comfort to our friends there, and also without any 
absolute development of the ruin which had been daily ex- 
pected at the Parsonage. Sundry letters had reached Mr. 
Robarts from various personages acting in the Tozer inter- 
est, all of which he "referred to Mr. Curling, of Barchester. 
Some of these letters contained prayers for the money, 
pointing out how an innocent widow lady had been in- 
duced to invest her all on the faith of Mr. Robarts’ name, 
and was now starving in a garret, with her three children, 
because Mr. Robarts would not make good his own under- 
takings. But the majority of them were filled with threats 
— only two days longer would be allowed, and then the 
sheriff’s officers would be enjoined to do their work ; then 
one day of grace would be added, at the expiration of which 
the dogs of war Tvould be unloosed. These, as fast as they 
came, were sent to Mr. Curling, who took no notice of them 
individually, but continued his endeavor to prevent the evil 
day. The second bill Mr. Robarts would take up — such 
was Mr. Curling’s proposition — and would pay by two in- 
stallments of £250 each, the first m two months, and the 
second in four. If this were acceptable to the Tozer in- 
terest, well ; if it were not, the sheriff’s officers must do 
their worst, and the Tozer interest must look for what it 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


467 


could get. The Tozer interest would not declare itself 
satisfied with these terms, and so the matter went on ; dur- 
ing which the roses faded from day to day on the cheeks 
of Mrs. Robarts, as under such circumstances may easily 
be conceived. 

In the mean time Lucy still remained at Hogglestock, 
and had there become absolute mistress of the house. Poor 
Mrs. Crawley had been at death’s door; for some days she 
w^as delirious, and afterward remained so weak as to be al- 
most unconscious ; but now the worst was over, and Mr. 
CraAvley had been informed that, as far as human judg- 
ment might pronounce, his children Avould not become or- 
phans, nor Avould he become a widoAver. During these 
Aveeks Lucy had not once been home, nor liad she seen any 
of the Framley people. “Why should she incur the risk 
of conveying infection for so small an object?” as she her- 
self argued, Avriting by letters, Avliich Avere duly fumigated 
before they Avere opened at the Parsonage. So she re- 
mained at Hogglestock, and the CraAAdey cliildren, noAv ad- 
mitted to all the lionors of the nursery, Avere kept at Fram- 
ley. They Avere kept at Framley, although it Avas expect- 
ed from day to day that the beds on Avhich they lay Avould 
be seized for the payment of Mr. Sowerby’s debts. 

Lucy, as I have said, became mistress of the house at 
Hogglestock, and made herself absolutely ascendant over 
Mr. CraAvley. Jellies, and broth, and fruit, and even but- 
ter, came from Lufton Court, Avhich she displayed on the 
table, .absolutely on the cloth before him, and yet he bore 
it. I can not say that he partook of these delicacies Avith 
any freedom himself, but he did drink his tea Avhen it Avas 
given to him, although it contained Framley cream — and, 
liad he knoAvn it, Bohea itself from the Framley chest. In 
truth, ill these days, he had given himself over to the do- 
minion of this stranger; and he said nothing beyond 
“ Well, Avell,” AAuth tAVO uplifted hands, Avhen he came upon 
her as she Avas seAving the buttons on to liis OAvn shirts — 
seAving on the buttons, and perhaps occasionally applying 
lier needle elsewhere, not Avithout utility. 

He said to her at this period very little in the Avay of 
thanks. Some protracted conversations they did have noAV 
and again during the long evenings, but even in these he 
did not utter many Avords as to their present state of life. 
It AA^as on religion chiefly that he sj^oke ; not lecturing her 


468 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


individually, but laying down his ideas as to what the life 
of a Christian should be, and especially what should be the 
life of a minister. “ But, though I can see this. Miss Ro- 
barts,” he said, “I am bound to say that no one has fallen 
off so frequently as myself. I have renounced the devil 
and all his 'worhs ; but it is by Avord of mouth only — by 
word of mouth only. How shall a man crucify the old 
Adam that is within him unless he throw himself prostrate 
in the dust and acknowledge that all his strength is weaker ^ 
than water ?” To this, often as it might be rej^eated, she 
would listen patiently, comforting him by such words as 
her theology would supply ; but then, when this was over, 
she would again resume her command, and enforce from 
him a close obedience to her domestic behests. 

At the end of the month Lord Lufton came back to 
Framley Court. His arrival there was quite unexpected ; 
though, as he pointed out, when his mother expressed some 
surpiise, he had returned exactly at the time named by him 
before he started. 

“ I need not say, Ludovic, how glad I am to have you,” 
said she, looking into his face and pressing his arm ; “ the 
more so, indeed, seeing that I hardly expected it.” 

He said nothing to his mother about Lucy the first even- 
ing, although there was some' conversation respecting the 
Robarts family. 

“ I am afraid Mr. Robarts has embarrassed himself,” said 
Lady Lufton, looking very seriously. “ Rumors reach me 
which are most distressing. I have said nothing to any 
body as yet — not even to Fanny ; but I can see in her face, 
and hear in the tones of her voice, that she is sufiering some 
great sorrow.” 

“ I know all about it,” said Lord Lufton. 

“You know all about it, Ludovic?” 

“Yes; it is through that precious friend of mine, Mr. 
Sowerby, of Chaldicotes. He has accejoted bills for Sower- 
by ; indeed, he told me so.” 

“ What business had he at Chaldicotes ? What had he 
to do with such friends as that ? I do not know how I am 
to forgive him.” 

“ It was through me that he became acquainted with 
Sowerby. You must remember that, mother.” 

“ I do not see that that is any excuse. Is he to consider 
that all your acquaintances must necessarily be his friends 


FEAIILEY PARSONAGE. 


469 


also ? It is reasonable to suppose that you in your posi- 
tion must live occasionally with a great many peoj^le who 
are altogether unfit companions for him as a parish clergy- 
man. He will not remember this, and he must be taught 
it. What business had he to go to Gatherum Castle ?” 

“ He got his stall at Barchester by going there.” 

“ He would be much better without his stall, and Fanny 
has the sense to know this. What does he want with two 
houses ? Prebendal stalls are for older men than he — for 
men who have earned them, and who, at the end of their 
lives, want some ease. I wish, with all my heart, that he 
had never taken it.” 

“ Six hundred a year has its charms all the same,” said 
Lufton, getting up and strolling out of the room. 

“ If Mark really be in any difficulty,” he said, later in 
the evening, “ we must put him on his legs.” 

“You mean, pay his debts.” 

“Yes; he has no debts except these acceptances of 
Sowerby’s.” 

“How much will it be, Ludovic?” 

“ A thousand pounds, perhaps, more or less. I’ll find the 
money, mother, only I sha’n’t be able to pay you quite as 
soon as I intended.” Whereupon his mother got up, and, 
throwing her arms round his neck, declared that she would 
never forgive him if he ever said a word more about her 
little present to him. I suppose there is no pleasure a 
mother can have more attractive than giving away her 
money to an only son. 

Lucy’s name was first mentioned at breakfast the next 
morning. Lord Lufton had made up his mind to attack 
his mother on the subject early in the morning — before he 
went up to the Parsonage ; but, as matters turned out. 
Miss Robarts’ doings were necessarily brought under dis- 
cussion without reference to Lord Lufton’s special aspira- 
tions regarding her. The fact of Mrs. Crawley’s illness had 
been mentioned, and Lady Lufton had stated how it had 
come to pass that all the Crawleys’ children were at the 
Parsonage. 

“ I must say that Fanny has behaved excellently,” said 
Lady Lufton. “ It was just what might have been expect- 
ed from her. And, indeed,” she added, speaking in an em- 
barrassed tone, “ so lias Miss Robarts. Miss Robarts has 
remained at Hogglestock and nursed Mrs. Crawley through 
the whole.” 


470 


FEAMLEY P AES ON AGE. 


•f 


“Remained at Hogglestock — through the fever!” ex- 
claimed his lordship. 

“ Yes, indeed,” said Lady Lufton. 

“And is she there noAV ?” 

“ Oh yes ; I am not aware that she thinks of leaving just 
yet.” 

“Then I say that it is a great shame — a scandalous 
shame !” 

“ But, Ludovic, it was her own doing.” 

“ Oh yes, I understand. But why should she be sacri- 
ficed? Were there no nurses in the country to be hired, 
but that she must go and remain there for a month at the 
bedside of a pestilent fever ? There is no justice in it.” 

“Justice, Ludovic? I don’t know about justice, but 
there was great Christian charity. Mrs. Crawley has prob- 
ably owed her life to Miss Robarts.” 

“Has she been ill? Is she ill? I insist upon knowing 
whether she is ill. I shall go over to Hogglestock myself 
immediately after breakfast.” 

To this Lady Lufton made no reply. If Lord Lufton 
chose to go to Hogglestock, slie could not prevent him. 
She thought, however, that it would be much better that 
he should stay away. He would be quite as open to the 
infection as Lucy Robarts ; and, moreover, Mrs. Crawley’s 
bedside would be as inconvenient a place as might be se- 
lected for any interview between two lovers. Lady Luf- 
ton felt at the present moment that she was cruelly treated 
by circumstances with reference to Miss Robarts. Of 
course, it would have been her part to lessen, if she could 
do so without injustice, that high idea which her son en- 
tertained of the beauty and worth of the young lady ; but, 
unfortunately, she had been compelled to praise her and to 
load her name with all manner of eulogy. Lady Lufton 
was essentially a true w^oman, and not even with the ob- 
ject of carrying out her own views in so important a mat- 
ter would she be guilty of such deception as she might 
have practiced by simply holding her tongue ; but, never- 
theless, she could hardly reconcile herself to the necessity 
of singing Lucy’s praises. 

After breakfast Lady Lufton got up from her chair, but 
hung about the room without making any show of leaving. 
In accordance with her usual custom, she would have asked 
her son what he was going to do ; but she did not dare so 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


471 


to inquire now. Had he not declared, only a few minutes 
since, whither he would go? “I suppose I shall see you 
at lunch ?” at last she said. 

“At lunch? Well, I don’t know. Look here, mother. 
What am I to say to Miss Robarts when I see her ?” and 
he leaned with his back againsj; the chimney-piece as he in- 
terrogated his mother. 

“ What are you to say to her, Ludovic ?” 

“ Yes ; what am I to say — as coming from you ? Am I 
to tell her that you will receive her as your daughter-in- 
law ?” 

“ Ludovic, I have explained all that to Miss Robarts her- 
self.” 

“ Explained what ?” 

“ I have told her that I did not think that such a mar- 
riage would make either you or her happy.” 

“ And why have you told her so ? Why have you taken 
upon yourself to judge for me in such a matter, as though 
I were a child ? Mother, you must unsay what you have 
said.” 

Lord Lufton, as he spoke, looked full into his mother’s 
face ; and he did so, not as though he were begging from 
her a favor, but issuing to her a command. She stood near 
him, with one hand on the breakfast-table, gazing at him 
almost furtively, not quite daring to meet the full view of 
his eye. There was only one thing on earth which Lady 
Lufton feared, and that was her son’s displeasure. The 
sun of her earthly heaven shone upon her through the me- 
dium of his existence. If she were driven to quarrel with 
him, as some ladies of her acquaintance were driven to 
quarrel with their sons, the world to her would be over. 
Not but what facts might be so strong as to make it abso- 
lutely necessary that she should do this. As some people 
resolve that, under certain circumstances, they will commit 
suicide, so she could see that, under certain circumstances, 
she must consent even to be separated from him. She 
would not do Avrong — not that which she kneAV to be 
wrong — even for his sake. If it were necessary that all 
her happiness should collapse and be crushed in ruin around 
her, she must endure it, and Avait God’s time to relieve her 
from so dark a Avorld. The light of the sun Avas very dear 
to her, but even that might be purchased at too dear a 
cost. 


472 


FBAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ I told you before, mother, that my choice was made, 
and I asked you then to give your consent ; you have now 
had time to think about it, and therefore I have come to 
ask you again. I liave reason to know that there will be 
no impediment to my marriage if you will frankly hold out 
your hand to Lucy.” 

The matter was altogether in Lady Lufton’s hands ; but, 
fond as she was of power, she absolutely wished that it 
were not so. Had her son married without asking her, 
and then brought Lucy home as his wife, she would un- 
doubtedly have forgiven him; and, much as she might 
have disliked the match, she would ultimately have em- 
braced the bride. But now she was compelled to exercise 
her judgment. If he married imprudently, it would be her 
doing. How was she to give her expressed consent to that 
which she believed to be wrong ? 

“ Do you know any thing against her — any reason why 
she should not be my wife ?” continued he. 

“ If you mean as regards her moral conduct, certainly 
not,” said Lady Lufton. “But I could say as much as that 
in favor of a great many young ladies whom I should re- 
gard as very ill suited for such a marriage.” 

“Yes; some might be vulgar, some might be ill-tem- 
pered, some might be ugly, others might be burdened with 
disagreeable connections. I can understand that you should 
object to a daughter-in-law under any of these circumstan- 
ces. But none of these things can be said of Miss Robarts. 
I defy you to say that she is not in all respects what a lady 
should be.” 

But her father was a doctor of medicine ; she is the sis- 
ter of the parish clergyman ; she is only five feet two in 
height, and is so uncommonly brown ! Had Lady Lufton 
dared to give a catalogue of her objections, such would 
have been its extent and nature. But she did not dare to 
do this. 

“ I can not say, Ludovic, that she is possessed of all that 
you should seek in a wife.” Such was her answer. 

“ Do you mean that she has not got money ?” 

“No, not that; I should be very sorry to see you mak- 
ing money your chief object, or, indeed, any essential ob- 
ject. If it chanced that your wife did have money, no 
doubt you would find it a convenience. But pray under- 
stand me, Ludovic ; I 'would not for a moment advise you 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


473 


to subject your happiness to such a necessity as that. It 
is not because she is without fortune — ” 

“ Then wliy is it ? At breakfast you were singing her 
praises, and saying how excellent she is.” 

“ If I were forced to put my objection into one word, I 
should say — ” and then she paused, hardly daring to en- 
counter the frown which was already gathering itself on 
her son’s brow. 

“You would say what?” said Lord Lufton, almost 
roughly. 

“ Don’t be angry with me, Ludovic ; all that I think, 
and all that I say on this subject, I think and say with only 
one object — that of your happiness. What other motive 
can I have for any thing in this world?” And then she 
came close to him and kissed him. 

“ But tell me, mother, what is this objection ; what is 
this terrible word that is to sum up the list of all poor 
Lucy’s sins, and prove that she is unfit for married life ?” 

“ Ludovic, I did not say that. You know that I did not.” 

“ What is the word, mother ?” 

And then at last Lady Lufton spoke it out. “ She is— 
insignificant. I believe her to be a very good girl, but she 
is not qualified to fill the high position to which you would 
exalt her.” 

“ Insignificant !” 

“ Yes, Ludovic, I think so.” 

“ Then, mother, you do not know her. You must per- 
mit me to say that you are talking of a girl whom you do 
not know. Of all the epithets of opprobrium which the 
English language could give you, that would be nearly the 
last which she would deserve.” 

“I have not intended any opprobrium.” 

“ Insignificant !” 

“ Perhaps you do not quite understand me, Ludovic.” 

“ I know what insignificant means, mother.” 

“ I think that she would not worthily fill the position 
wdnch your wife should take in the world.” 

“ I understand Avhat you say.” 

“ She would not do you honor at the head of your table.” 

“Ah! I understand. You want me to marry some 
bouncing Amazon, some pink and white giantess of fash- 
ion, who would frighten the little people into their pro- 
prieties.” 


474 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Oh, Ludovic ! you are intending to laugh at me now.” 

“ I was never less inclined to laugh in my life — never, I 
can assure you. And now I am more certain than ever 
that your objection to Miss Robarts arises from your not 
knowing her. You will find, I think, when you do know 
her, that she is as well able to hold her own as any lady 
of your acquaintance — ay, and to maintain her husband’s 
position too. I can assure you that I shall have no fear of 
her on that score.” 

“ I think, dearest, that perhaps you hardly — ” 

“ I think this, mother, that in such a matter as this I 
must choose for myself. I have chosen ; and I now ask 
you, as my mother, to go to her and bid her welcome. 
Dear mother, I will own this, that I should not be happy 
if I thought that you did not love my wife.” These last 
words he said in a tone of affection that went to his moth- 
er’s heart, and then he left the room. 

Poor Lady Luftou, when she was alone, waited till she 
heard her son’s steps retreating through the hall, and then 
betook herself up stairs to her customary morning work. 
She sat down at last as though >about so to occupy herself ; 
but her mind was too full to allow of her taking up her 
pen. She had often said to herself, in days which to her 
were not as yet long gone by, that she would choose a 
bride for lier son, and that then she would love the chosen 
one with all her heart. She would dethrone herself in favor 
of this new queen, sinking with joy into her dowager state, 
in order that her son’s wife might shine with the greater 
splendor. The fondest day-dreams of her life had all had 
reference to the time when her son should bring home a 
new Lady Lufton, selected by herself from the female ex- 
cellence of England, and in which she might be the first to 
worship her new idol. But could she dethrone herself for 
Lucy Robarts ? Could she give up her chair of state in 
order to place thereon the little girl from the Parsonage? 
Could she take to her heart, and treat with absolute loving 
confidence — with the confidence of an almost idolatrous 
mother, that little chit who, a few months since, had sat 
awkwardly in one corner of her drawing-room, afraid to 
speak to any one ? And yet it seemed that it must come 
to this — to this, or else those day-dreams of hers would in 
no wise come to pass. 

She sat herself down, trying to think whether it were 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


475 


possible that Lucy might fill the throne ; for she had be- 
gun to recognize it as probable that her son’s will would 
be too strong for her ; but her thoughts would fly away to 
Griselda Grantly. In her first and only matured attempt 
to realize her day-dreams, she had chosen Griselda for her 
queen. She had failed there, seeing that the fates had des- 
tined Miss Grantly for another throne — for another and a 
higher one, as far as the Avorld goes. She would have made 
Griselda the wife of a baron, but fate w’as about to make 
that young lady the wdfe of a marquis. Was there cause 
of grief in this ? Did she really regret that Miss Grantly, 
with all her virtues, should be made over to the house of 
Hartletop ? Lady Lufton was a woman who did not bear 
disappointment lightly ; but, nevertheless, she did almost 
feel herself to have been relieved from a burden when she 
thought of the termination of the Lufton-Grantly marriage 
treaty. What if she had been successful, and, after all, the 
prize had been other than she had expected? She was 
sometimes prone to think that that prize was not exactly 
all that she had once hoped. Griselda looked the very 
thing that Lady Lufton wanted for a queen; but how 
would a queen reign who trusted only to her looks ? In 
that respect it was perhaps well for her that destiny had 
interposed. Griselda, she was driven to admit, was better 
suited to Lord Dumbello than to her son. 

B;.t still — such a queen as Lucy! Could it ever come 
to pass that the lieges of the kingdom would bow the knee 
in proper respect before so puny a sovereign ? And then 
there was that feeling Avhich, in still higher quarters, pre- 
vents the marriage of princes with the most noble of their 
people. Is it not a recognized rule of these realms that 
none of the blood royal shall raise to royal honors those 
of the subjects who are by birth unroyal? Lucy was a 
subject of the house of Lufton in that she was the sister of 
the parson and a resident denizen of the Parsonage. Pre- 
suming that Lucy herself might do for queen — granting 
that she might have some faculty to reign, the crown hav- 
ing* been duly placed on her brow — how, then, about that 
clerical brother near the throne? Would it not come to 
this, that there would no longer be a queen at Framley ? 

And yet she knew that she must yield. She did not say 
so to herself. She did not as yet acknowledge that she 
must put out her hand to Lucy, calling her by name as her 


476 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


daughter. She did not absolutely say as much to her own 
heart — not as yet. But she did begin to bethink herself 
of Lucy’s high qualities, and to declare to herself that the 
girl, if not fit to be a queen, was, at any rate, fit to be a 
woman. That there was a spirit wdthin that body, insig- 
nificant though the body might be, Lady Lufton was pre- 
pared to admit. That she had acquired the power — the 
chief of all powders in this world — of sacrificing herself for 
the sake of others; that, too, was evident enough. That 
she was a good girl, in the usual acceptation of the w^ord 
good. Lady Lufton had never doubted. She was ready- 
witted too, prompt in action, gifted with a certain fire. It 
w’as that gift of fire which had won for her, so unfortunate- 
ly, Lord Lufton’s love. It was quite possible for her also 
to love Lucy Robarts ; Lady Lufton admitted that to her- 
self; but, then, who could bow the knee before her, and 
serve her as a queen? Was it not a pity that she should 
be so insignificant? 

But, nevertheless, we may say that as Lady Lufton sat 
that morning in her owm room for two hours without em- 
ployment, the star of Lucy Robarts was gradually rising in 
the firmament. After all, love was the food chiefly neces- 
sary for the nourishment of Lady Lufton — the only food 
absolutely necessary. She was not aware of this herself, 
nor probably would those who knew her best have so 
spoken of her. They w^ould have declared that family 
pride was her daily pabulum, and she herself would have 
said so too, calling it, however, by some less oftensive name. 
Her son’s honor, and the honor of her house — of those she 
would have spoken as the things dearest to her in this 
w^orld. And this was partly true ; for, had her son been 
dishonored, she would have sunk with sorrow to the grave. 
But the one thing necessary to her daily life w^as the power 
of loving those w'ho were near to her. 

Lord Lufton, when he left the dining-room, intended at 
once to go up to the Parsonage, but he first strolled round 
the garden in order that he might make up his mind what 
he would say there. He was angry with his mother, hav- 
ing not had the wit to see that she was about to give way 
and yield to him, and he was determined to make it under- 
stood that in this matter he would have his own way. He 
had learned that which it was necessary that he should 
know as to Lucy’s heart, and, such being the case, he would 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


477 


not conceive it possible that he should be debarred by his 
mother’s opposition. “ There is no son in England loves 
his mother better than I do,” he said to himself; “but 
there are some things which a man can not stand. She 
would have married me to that block of stone if I would 
have let her ; and now, because she is disappointed there — 
Insignificant ! I never in my life heard any thing so ab- 
surd, so untrue, so uncharitable, so — She’d like me to 
bring a dragon liome, I suppose. It would serve her right 
if I did — some creature that would make the house intol- 
erable to her. She must do it, though,” he said again, “ or 
she and I will quarrel ;” and then he turned off toward the 
gate, preparing to go to the Parsonage. 

“ My lord, have you heard what has happened ?” said the 
gardener, coming to him at the gate. The man was out 
of breath and almost overwhelmed by the greatness of his 
own tidings. 

“ No, I have heard nothing. What is it ?” 

“ The bailiffs have taken possession of every thing at 
the Parsonage.” 


CHAPTER XLIY. 

THE PHILISTINES AT THE PARSONAGE. 

It has been already told how things went on between 
the Tozers, Mr. Curling, and Mark Robarts during that 
month. Mr. Forrest had drifted out of the business alto- 
gether, as also had Mr. Sowerby, as far as any active par- 
tici])ation in it went. Letters came frequently from Mi\ 
Curling to the Parsonage, and at last came a message by 
special mission to say that the evil day was at hand. As 
far as Mr. Curling’s professional experience would enable 
him to anticipate or foretell the proceedings of such a man 
as Tom Tozer, he thought that the sheriff’s officers would 
be at Framley Parsonage on the following morning. Mr. 
Curling’s experience did not mislead him in this respect. 

“And what will you do, Mark?” said Fanny, speaking 
through her tears, after she had read the letter which her 
husband handed to her. 

“ Nothing. What can I do ? They must come.” 

“Lord Lufton came to-day. Will you not go to him?” 

“ No. If I were to do so, it would be the same as ask- 
ing him for the money.” 


478 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ Why not borrow it of him, dearest ? Surely it would 
not be so much for him to lend.” 

“ I could not do it. Think of Lucy, and how she stands 
with him. Besides, I have already had words with Lufton 
about Sowerby and his money-matters. He thinks that I 
am to blame, and he would tell me so ; and then there 
would be sharp things said between us. He would ad- 
vance me the money if I pressed for it, but he would do so 
in a way that would make it impossible that I should take 
it.” 

There was nothing more, then, to be said. If she had 
had her own way, Mrs. Robarts would have gone at once 
to Lady Lufton, but she could not induce her husband to 
sanction such a proceeding. The objection to seeking as- 
sistance from her ladyship was as strong as that which pre- 
vailed as to her son. There had already been some little 
beginning of ill feeling, and, under such circumstances, it 
was impossible to ask for pecuniary assistance. Fanny, 
however, had a prophetic assurance that assistance out of 
these difficulties must in the end come to them from that 
quarter, or not come at all ; and she would fain, had she 
been allowed, make every thing known at the big house. 

On the following morning they breakfasted at the usual 
hour, but in great sadness. A maid-servant, whom Mrs. 
Robarts had brought with her when she married, told her 
that a rumor of what was to happen had reached the kitch- 
en. Stubbs, the groom, had been in Barchester on the 
preceding day, and, according to his account — so said Mary 
— every body in the city was talking about it. “Never 
mind, Mary,” said Mrs. Robarts, and Mary replied, “ Oh no, 
of course not, ma’am.” 

In these days Mrs. Robarts was ordinarily very busy, see- 
ing that there were six children in the house, four of whom 
had come to her but ill supplied with infantine belongings ; 
and now, as usual, she went about her work immediately 
after breakfast. But she moved about the house very 
slowly, and was almost unable to give her orders to the 
servants, and spoke sadly to the children, who hung about 
her wondering what was the matter. Her husband at the 
same time took himself to his bookroom, but when there 
did not attempt any employment. He thrust his hands 
into his pockets, and, leaning against the fireplace, fixed 
his eyes upon the table before him without looking at any 


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FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


481 


thing that was on it ; it 'was impossible for him to betake 
himself to his work. Remember what is the ordinary la- 
bor of a clergyman in his study, and think how fit he must 
have been for such employment ! What would have been 
the nature of a sermon composed at such a moment, and 
with what satisfaction could he have used the sacred vol- ^ 
lime in referring to it for his arguments ? He, in this re- 
spect, was worse olf than his wife ; she did employ her- 
self, but he stood there without moving, doing nothing, 
with fixed eyes, thinking what men would say of him. 

Luckily for him, this state of suspense was not long, for 
within half an hour of his leaving the breakfast-table the 
footman knocked at his door— that footman with whom at 
the beginning of his difficulties he had made ujd his mind 
to dispense, but who had been kept on because of the Bar- 
chester prebend. 

“ If you please, your reverence, there are two men out- 
side,” said the footman. 

Two men ! Mark knew well enough what men they 
were, but he could hardly take the coming of two such men 
to his quiet country parsonage quite as a matter of course. 

“Who are they, John?” said he, not wishing any an- 
swer, but because the question was forced upon him. 

“ I am afeard they’re — bailiffs, sir.” 

“ Yery well, John ; that will do ; of course they must do 
w'hat they please about the place.” 

And then, when the servant left him, he still stood with- 
out moving, exactly as he had stood before. There he re- 
mained for ten minutes ; but the time went by very slow- 
ly. When, about noon, some circumstance told him what 
was the hour, he was astonished to find that the day had 
not nearly passed away. 

And then another tap was struck on the door — a sound 
which he well recognized — and his Avife crept silently into 
the room. She came close up to him before she spoke, and 
put her arm Avithin his : 

“ Mark,” she said, “ the men are here ; they are in the 
yard.” 

“ I knoAV it,” he ansAvered gruffly. 

“ Will it be better that you should see them, dearest ?” 

“See them! no; Avhat good can I do by seeing them? 
But I shall see them soon enough ; they will be here, I sup- 
pose, in a feAV minutes.” 

X 


482 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“ They are taking an inventory, cook says ; they are in 
the stable now.” 

“Very well; they must do as they please; I can not 
help them.” 

“Cook says that if they are allowed their meals and 
some beer, and if nobody takes any thing away, they will 
be quite civil.” 

“ Civil ! But what does it matter ? Let them eat and 
drink what they please, as long as the food lasts. I don’t 
suppose the butcher will send you more.” 

“ But, Mark, there’s nothing due to the butcher — only 
the regular monthly bill.” 

“Very well; you’ll see.” 

“ Oh, Mark, don’t look at me in that way. Do not turn 
away from me. What is to comfort us if we do not cling 
to each other now ?” 

“Comfort us! God help you! I wonder, Fanny, that 
you can bear to stay in the room with me.” 

“ Mark, dearest Mark, my own dear, dearest husband ! 
who is to be true to you if I am not? You shall not turn 
from me. How can any thing like this make a difference 
between you and me?” And then she threw her arms 
round his neck and embraced him. 

It was a terrible morning to him, and one of which every 
incident will dwell on his memory to the last day of his 
life. He had been so proud in his position — had assumed 
to himself so prominent a standing — had contrived, by some 
trick which he had acquired, to carry his head so high 
above the heads of neighboring parsons. It was this that 
had taken him among great people, had introduced him to 
the Duke of Omnium, had procured for him the stall at 
Barchester. But how was he to carry his head now? 
What would the Arabins and Grantlys say ? How would 
the bishop sneer at him, and Mrs. Proudie and her daugh- 
ters tell of him in all their quarters? How would Craw- 
ley look at him — Crawley, who had already once had him 
on the hip ? The stern severity of Crawley’s face loomed 
upon him no.w. Crawley, with his children half naked, 
and his wife a drudge, and himself half starved, had never 
had a bailiff in his house at Hogglestock ! And then his 
own curate, Evans, whom he had patronized, and treated 
almost as a dependent — how was he to look his curate in 
the face, and arrange with him for the sacred duties of the 
next Sunday ? 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


483 


His wife still stood by him, gazing into his face ; and as 
he looked at her and thought of her misery, he could not 
control his heart with reference to the wrongs which Sow- 
erby had heaped on him. It was Sowerby’s falsehood and 
Sowerb}^’s fraud which had brought upon him and his wife 
this terrible anguish. “ If there be justice on earth, he will 
suffer for it yet,” he said at last, not speaking intentionally 
to his wife, but unable to repress his feelings. 

“ Do not wish him evil, Mark ; you may be sure he has 
his own sorrows.” 

“ His own sorrows ! No, he is callous to such misery as 
this. He has become so hardened in dishonesty that all 
this is mirth to him. If there be punishment in heaven for 
falsehood — ” 

“ Oh, Mark, do not curse him !” 

“How am I to keep myself from cursing w^hen I see 
what he has brought upon you ?” 

“‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord,’” answered the 
young wdfe, not with solemn, preaching accent, as though 
bent on reproof, but with the softest whisper into his ear. 
“ Leave that to Him, Mark ; and for us, let us pray that He 
may soften the hearts of us all — of him who has caused us 
to suffer, and of our own.” 

Mark was not called upon to reply to this, for he was 
again disturbed by a servant at the door. It was the cook 
this time herself, who had come with a message from the 
men of the law. And she had come, be it remembered, not 
from any necessity that she as cook should do this line of 
work ; for the footman, or Mrs. Robarts’ maid, might have 
come as well as she ; but when things are out of course, 
servants are always out of course also. As a rule, nothing 
will induce a butler to go into a stable, or persuade a house- 
maid to put her hand to a frying-pan. But, now that this 
new excitement had come upon the household — seeing that 
the bailiffs Avere in possession, and that the chattels were 
being entered in a catalogue, every body was willing to do 
every thing — every thing but his or her own wmrk. The 
gardener was looking after the dear children ; the nurse 
was doing the rooms before the bailiffs should reach them ; 
the groom had gone into the kitchen to get their lunch 
ready for them ; and the cook was walking about with an 
inkstand, obeying all the orders of these great potentates. 
As far as the servants were concerned, it may be a question 


484 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


whether the coming of the bailitfs had not hitherto been 
regarded as a treat. 

“ If you please, ma’am,” said Jemima cook, “ they wishes 
to know in which room you’d be pleased to have the in- 
min-tory took fust. ’Cause, ma’am, they wouldn’t disturb 
you nor master more than can be avoided. For their line 
of life, ma’am, they is very civil — very civil indeed.” 

“I suppose they may go into the drawing-room,” said 
Mrs. Robarts, in a sad, low voice. All nice w^omen are 
proud of their drawing-rooms, and she was very proud of 
hers. It had been furnished when money was plenty with 
them, immediately after their marriage, and every thing in 
it was pretty, good, and dear to her. Oh, ladies, who have 
drawing-rooms in which the things are pretty, good, and 
dear to you, think of what it would be to have two bailiffs 
rummaging among them with pen and inkhorn, making a 
catalogue preparatory to a sheriff’s auction, and all without 
fault or extravagance of your own ! There were things 
there that had been given to her by Lady Lufton, by Lady 
Meredith, and other friends, and the idea did occur to her 
that it might be possible to save them from contamination ; 
but she would not say a word, lest by so saying she might 
add to Mark’s misery. 

“And then the dining-room,” said Jemima cook, in a 
tone almost of elation. 

“ Yes, if they please.” 

“And then master’s bookroom here; or perhaps the 
bedrooms, if you and master be still here.” 

“ Any way they please, cook ; it does not much signify,” 
said Mrs. Robarts. But for some days after that Jemima 
was by no means a favorite with her. 

The cook was hardly out of the room before a quick 
footstep was heard on the gravel before the window, and 
the hall door was immediately opened. 

“ Where is your master ?” said the well-known voice of 
Lord Lufton ; and then in half a minute he also w\as in the 
bookroom. 

“ Mark, my dear fellow, what’s all this ?” said he, in a 
cheery tone and with a pleasant face. “ Did not you know 
that I was here? I came down yesterday — landed from 
Hamburg only yesterday morning. How do you do, Mrs. 
Robarts ? This is a terrible bore, isn’t it?” 

Robarts, at the first moment, hardly knew how to speak 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


485 


to his old friend. He was struck dumb by the disgrace of 
his position, the more so as his misfortune was one which 
it was partly in the power of Lord Lufton to remedy. He 
had never yet borrowed money since he had filled a man’s 
position, but he had had words about money with the 
young peer, in which he knew that his friend had wronged 
him, and for this double reason he was now speechless. 

“ Mr. Sowerby has betrayed him,” said Mrs. Robarts, 
wiping the tears from her eyes. Hitherto she had said no 
word against Sowerby, but now it was necessary to defend 
her husband. 

“No doubt about it. I believe he has always betrayed 
every one who has ever trusted in him. I told you what 
he was some time since, did I not ? But, Mark, why on 
earth have you let it go so far as this? Would not For- 
rest help you ?” 

“Mr. Forrest wanted him to sign more bills, and he 
would not do that,” said Mrs. Robarts, sobbing. 

“Bills are like dram-drinking,” said the discreet young 
lord : “ when one once begins, it is very hard to leave off. 
Is it true that the men are here now, Mark ?” 

“ Yes, they are in the next room.” 

“ What, in the drawing-room ?” 

“They are making out a list of the things,” said Mrs. 
Robarts. 

“We must stop that, at any rate,” said his lordship, 
walking off toward the scene of the operations ; and, as he 
left the room, Mrs. Robarts followed him, leaving her hus- 
band by himself. 

“ Why did you not send down to my mother ?” said he, 
speaking hardly above a whisper, as they stood together 
in the hall. 

“ He would not let me.” 

“ But why not go yourself? or why not have written to 
me, considering how intimate we are ?” 

Mrs. Robarts could not explain to him that the peculiar 
intimacy between him and Lucy must have hindered her 
from doing so, even if otherwise it might have been possi- 
ble ; but she felt such was the case. 

“Well, my men, this is bad work you’re doing here,” 
said he, walking into the drawing-room. Whereupon the 
cook courtesied low, and the bailiffs, knowing his lordship, 
stopped from their business and put their hands to their 


486 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


foreheads. “You must stop this, if you please — at once. 
Come, let’s go out into the kitchen, or some place outside. 
I don’t like to see you here, with your big boots, and the 
pen and ink, among the furniture.” 

“We ain’t a-done no harm, my lord, so please your lord- 
ship,” said Jemima cook. 

“ And we is only a-doing our bounden dooties,” said one 
of the bailiffs. 

“ As we is sworn to do, so please your lordship,” said 
the other. 

“ And is wery sorry to be uncon wenient, my lord, to any 
gen’leman or lady as is a gen’leman or lady. But acci- 
dents will happen, and then what can the likes of us do ?” 
said the first. 

“ Because we is sworn, my lord,” said the second. But, 
nevertheless, in spite of their oaths, and in spite also of the 
stern necessity which they pleaded, they ceased their oper- 
ations at, the instance of the peer ; for the name of a lord 
is still great in England. 

“ And now leave this, and let Mrs. Robarts go into her 
drawing-room.” 

“ And, please your lordshij), what is we to do ? Who 
is we to look to ?” 

In satisfying them absolutely on this point. Lord Lufton 
had to use more than his influence as a peer. It was neces- 
sary that he should have pen and paper. But with pen 
and paper he did satisfy them — satisfied them so far that 
they agreed to return to Stubbs’ room, the former hospital, 
due stipulation having been made for the meals and beer, 
and there await the order to evacuate the premises, which 
Would, no doubt, under his lordship’s influence, reach them 
on the following day. The meaning of all which w^as that 
Lord Lufton had undertaken to bear upon his own shoul- 
der the whole debt due by Mr. Robarts. 

And then he returned to the bookroom, where Mark was 
still standing almost on the spot in which he had placed 
himself immediately after breatest. Mrs. Robarts did not 
return, but went up among the children to connterorder 
such directions as she had given for the preparation of the 
nursery for the Philistines. “ Mark,” he said, “ do not 
trouble yourself about this more than you can help. The 
men have ceased doing any thing, and they shall leave the 
place to-morrow morning.” 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


487 


“And how will the money — be paid?” said the poor 
clergyman. 

“ Do not bother yourself about that at present. It shall 
so be managed that the burden shall fall ultimately on 
yourself— not on any one else. But I am sure it must be 
a comfort to you to know that your wife need not be driv- 
en out of her drawing-room.” 

“ But, Lufton, I can not allow you, after what has passed, 
and at the present moment — ” 

“ My dear fellow, I know all about it, and I am coming 
to that just now. You have employed Curling, and he 
shall settle it ; and, upon my word, Mark, you shall pay 
the bill. But, for the present emergency, the money is at 
my banker’s.” 

“ But, Lufton — ” 

“ And, to deal honestly, about Curling’s bill I mean, it 
ought to be as much my affair as your own. It was I that 
brought you into this mess with Sowerby, and I know now 
how unjust about it I was to you up in London. But the 
truth is that Sowerby’s treachery had nearly driven me 
wild. It has done the same to you since, I have no doubt.” 

“ He has ruined me,” said Hobarts. 

“ Ho, he has not done that. Ho thanks to him, though ; 
he would not have scrupled to do it had it come in his way. 
The fact is, Mark, that you and I can not conceive the 
depth of fraud in such a man as that. He is always look- 
ing for money ; I believe that in all his hours of most 
friendly intercourse — when he is sitting with you over 
your wine, and riding beside you in the field — he is still 
thinking how he can make use of you to tide him over 
some difficulty. He has lived in that way till he has a 
pleasure in cheating, and has become so clever in his line 
of life that if you or I were with him again to-morrow he 
would again get the better of us. He is a man that must 
be absolutely avoided ; I, at any rate, have learned to know 
so much.” 

In the expression of which opinion Lord Lufton was too 
hard upon poor Sowerby, as, indeed, we are all apt to be 
too hard in forming an opinion upon the rogues of the 
world. That Mr. Sowerby had been a rogue I can not 
deny. It is roguish to lie, and he had been a great liar. 
It is roguish to make promises which the promiser knows 
he can not perform, and such had been Mr. Sowerby’s daily 


488 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


practice. It is roguish to live on other men’s money, and 
Mr. Sowerby had long been doing so. It is roguish — at 
least so I would hold it — to deal willingly with rogues, and 
Mr. Sowerby had been constant in such dealings. I do not 
know whether he had not at times fallen even into more 
palpable roguery than is proved by such practices as those 
enumerated. Though I have for him some tender feeling, 
knowing that there was still a touch of gentle bearing 
round his heart, an abiding taste for better things within 
him, I can not acquit him from the great accusation. But, 
for all that, in si3ite of his acknowledged roguery. Lord 
Lufton was too hard upon him in his judgment. There 
was yet within him the means of repentance, could a locus 
penitentice have been supplied to him. He grieved bitter- 
ly over his own ill doings, and knew well what changes 
gentlehood would have demanded from him. Whether or 
no he had gone too far for all changes — whether the locus 
penitentice was for him still a possibility — that was between 
him and a higher power. 

“ I have no one to blame but myself,” said Mark, still 
speaking in the same heart-broken tone, and with his face 
averted from his friend. 

The debt would now be paid, and the bailiffs would be 
expelled; but that would not set him right before the 
world. It would be known to all men — to all clergymen 
in the diocese — that the sheriff’s officers had been in charge 
of Framley Parsonage, and he could never again hold up 
his head in the Close of Barchester. 

“ My dear fellow, if we were all to make ourselves mis- 
erable for such a trifle as this — ” said Lord Lufton, putting 
his arm affectionately on his friend’s shoulder. 

“ But we are not all clergymen,” said Mark ; and, as he 
spoke, he turned away to the window, and Lord Lufton 
knew that the tears were on his cheek. 

Nothing was then said between them for some moments, 
after which Lord Lufton again spoke : 

“ Mark, my dear fellow !” 

“Well?” said Mark, with his face still turned toward the 
window. 

“You must remember one thing: in helping you over 
this stile, which will be really a matter of no inconvenience 
to me, I have a better right than that even of an old friend ; 
I look upon you now as my brother-in-law.” 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


489 


Mark turned slowly round, plainly showing the tears 
upon his face. 

“ Do you mean,” said he, “ that any thing more has taken 
place ?” 

“ I mean to make your sister my wife ; she sent me word 
by you to say that she loved me, and I am not going to 
stand upon any nonsense after that. If she and I are both 
willing, no one alive has a right to stand between us ; and, 
by heavens, no one shall. I will do nothing secretly, so I 
tell you that, exactly as I have told her ladyship.” 

“ But what does she say ?” 

‘‘ She says nothing ; but it can not go on like that. My 
mother and I can not live here together if she opposes me 
in this way. I do not want to frighten your sister by go- 
ing over to her at Hogglestock, but I expect you to tell 
her so much as I now tell you, as coming from me ; other- 
wise she will think that I have forgotten her.” 

“ She will not think that.” 

“She need not; good-by, old fellow. I’ll make it all 
right between you and her ladyship about this affair of 
Sowerby’s.” 

And then he took his leave and walked off to settle 
about the payment of the money. 

“ Mother,” said he to Lady Lufton that evening, “ you 
must not bring this affair of the bailiffs up against Kobarts. 
It has been more my fault than his.” 

Hitherto not a word had been spoken between Lady 
Lufton and her son on the subject. She had heard with 
terrible dismay of what had happened, and had heard, also, 
that Lord Lufton had immediately gone to the Parsonage. 
It was impossible, therefore, that she should now interfere. 
That the necessary money would be forthcoming she was 
aware, but that would not wipe out the terrible disgrace 
attached to an execution in a clergyman’s house. And 
then, too, he was her clergyman — her own clergyman, se- 
lected, and appointed, and brought to Framley by herself, 
endowed with a wife of her own choosing, filled with good 
things by her own hand ! It was a terrible misadventure, 
and she began to repent that she had ever heard the name 
of Robarts. She would not, however, have been slow to 
put forth the hand to lessen the evil by giving her own 
money, had this been either necessary or possible. But 
how could she interfere between Robarts and her son, es- 
X2 


490 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


pecially when she remembered the proposed connection 
between Lucy and Lord Lufton ? 

“Your fault, Ludovic?’^ 

“Yes, mother. It was I who introduced him to Mr. 
Sowerby ; and, to tell the truth, I do not think he would 
ever have been intimate with Sowerby if I had not given 
him some sort of a commission with reference to money- 
matters then pending between Mr. Sowerby and me. They 
are all over now — thanks to you, indeed.” 

“Mr. Robarts’ character as a clergyman should have 
kept him from such troubles, if no other feeling did so.” 

“ At any rate, mother, oblige me by letting it pass by.” 

“ Oh, I shall say nothing to him.” 

“ You had better say something to her, or otherwise it 
will be strange ; and even to him I would say a word or 
two — a word in kindness, as you so well know how. It 
will be easier to him in that way than if you were to be 
altogether silent.” 

No farther conversation took place between them at the 
time, but later in the evening she brushed her hand across 
her son’s forehead, sweeping the long silken hairs into their 
place, as she was wont to do when moved by any special 
feeling of love. “ Ludovic,” she said, “ no one, I think, has 
so good a heart as you. I will do exactly as you would 
have me about this affair of Mr. Robarts and the money.” 
And then there was nothing more said about it. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

PALACE BLESSINGS. 

And now, at this period, terrible rumors found their 
way into Barchester, and flew about the cathedral towers 
and round the cathedral door — ay, and into the canons’ 
houses and the humbler sitting-rooms of the vicars choral. 
Whether they made their way from thence up to the bish- 
op’s palace, or whether they descended from the palace to 
the Close, I will not pretend to say. But they w^ere shock- 
ing, unnatural, and, no doubt, grievous to all those excel- 
lent ecclesiastical hearts which cluster so thickly in those 
quarters. 

The first of these had reference to the new prebendary, 
and to the disgrace which he had brought on the chapter — 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


491 


a disgrace, as some of them boasted, which Barchester had 
never known before. This, however, like most other boasts, 
was hardly true, for within but a very few years there had 
been an execution in the house of a late prebendary, old 
Dr. Stanhope, and on that occasion the doctor himself had 
been forced to fly away to Italy, starting in the night, lest 
he also should fall into the hands of the Philistines, as well 
as his chairs and tables. 

“ It is a scandalous shame,” said Mrs. Proudie, speaking 
not of the old doctor, but of the new offender — “ a scandal- 
ous shame ; and it would only serve him right if the gown 
were stripped from his back.” 

“I suppose his living will be sequestrated,” said a young 
minor canon who attended much to the ecclesiastical in- 
junctions of the lady of the diocese, and was deservedly 
held in high favor. If Framley were sequestrated, why 
should not he, as well as another, undertake the duty — 
with such stipend as the bishop might award ? 

“ I am told that he is over head and ears in debt,” said 
the future Mrs. Tickler, “ and chiefly for horses which he 
has bought and not paid for.” 

“ I see him riding very splendid animals when he comes 
over for the cathedral duties,” said the minor canon. 

“ The sheriff’s officers are in the house at present, I am 
told,” said Mrs. Proudie. 

“ And is not he in jail ?” said Mrs. Tickler. 

“ If not, he ought to be,” said Mrs. Tickler’s mother. 

“And no doubt soon will be,” said the minor canon, 
“ for I hear that he is linked up with a most discreditable 
gang of persons.” 

This was what was said in the palace on that heading; 
and though, no doubt, more spirit and poetry was display- 
ed there than in the houses of the less gifted clergy, this 
shows the manner in which the misfortune of Mr. Robarts 
was generally discussed. Nor, indeed, had he deserved 
any better treatment at their hands. But his name did not 
run the gauntlet for the usual nine days, nor, indeed, did 
his fame endure at its height for more than two. This 
sudden fall was occasioned by other tidings of a still more 
distressing nature — by a rumor which so affected Mrs. 
Proudie that it caused, as she said, her blood to creep. 
And she was very careful that the blood of others should 
creep also, if the blood of others was equally sensitive. It 
was said that Lord Dumbello had jilted Miss Grantly. 


492 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


From what adverse spot in the world these cruel tidings 
fell upon Barchester I have never been able to discover. 
We know how quickly rumor flies, making herself common 
through all the cities. That Mrs. Proudie should have 
known more of the facts connected with the Hartletop fam- 
ily than any one else in Barchester was not surprising, see- 
ing that she was so much more conversant with the great 
Avorld in which such people lived. She knew, and was 
therefore correct enough in declaring, that Lord Dumbello 
had already jilted one other young lady — the Lady Julia 
MacMull, to whom he had been engaged three seasons 
back, and that therefore his character in such matters was 
not to be trusted. That Lady Julia had been a terrible 
flirt, and greatly given to waltzing with a certain German 
count with whom she had since gone oft' — that, I suppose, 
Mrs. Proudie did not know, much as she was conversant 
with the great world, seeing that she said nothing about 
it to any of her ecclesiastical listeners on the present occa- 
sionr • 

“ It will be a terrible warning, Mrs. Quiverful, to us all 
— a most useful warning to us — not to trust to the things 
of this world. I fear they made no inquiry about this 
young nobleman before they agreed that his name should 
be linked with that of their daughter.” This she said to 
the wife of the present warden of Hiram’s Hospital, a lady 
who had received favors from her, and was therefore bound 
to listen attentively to her voice. 

“ But I hope it may not be true,” said Mrs. Quiverful, 
who, in spite of the allegiance due by her to Mrs. Proudie, 
had reasons of her own for wishing well to the Grantly 
family. 

“ I hope so, indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie, with a slight 
tinge of anger in her voice ; “ but I fear that there is no 
doubt. And I must confess that it is no more than we had 
a right to expect. I hope that it may be taken by all of 
us as a lesson, and an ensample, and a teaching of the Lord’s 
mercy. And I wish you would request your husband — 
— from me, Mrs. Quiverful — to dwell on this subject in 
morning and evening lecture at the hospital on Sabbath 
next, showing how false is the trust which we put in the 
good things of this world which behest, to a certain ex- 
tent, Mr. Quiverful did obey, feeling that a quiet life in 
Barchester was of great value to him ; but he did not go 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


493 


so far as to caution his hearers, who consisted of the aged 
bedesmen of the hospital, against matrimonial projects of 
an ambitious nature. 

In this case, as in all others of the kind, the report was 
known to all the chapter before it had been heard by the 
archdeacon or his wife. The dean heard it, and disregard- 
ed it, as did also the dean’s wife — at first ; and those who 
generally sided with the Grantlys in the diocesan battles 
pooh-poohed the tidings, saying to each other that both 
the archdeacon and Mrs. Grantly were very well able to 
take care of their own affairs. But dropping water hol- 
lows a stone ; and at last it was admitted on all sides that 
there was ground for fear — on all sides except at Plum- 
stead. 

“ I am sure there is nothing in it — I really am sure of 
it,” said Mrs. Arabin, whispering to her sister ; “ but, after 
turning it over in my mind, I thought it right to tell you. 
And yet I don’t know now but I am wrong.” 

“ Quite right, dearest Eleanor,” said Mrs. Grantly, “ and 
I am much obliged to you. But we understand it, you 
know. It comes, of course, like all other Christian bless- 
ings, from the palace.” And then there was nothing more 
said about it between Mrs. Grantly and her sister. 

But on the following morning there arrived a letter by 
post, addressed to Mrs. Grantly, bearing the postmark of 
Littlebath. The letter ran : 

“Madam, — It is known to the writer that Lord Dumbello has ar. 
ranged with eertain friends how he may escape from his present engage- 
ment. I think, therefore, that it is my duty as a Christian to warn you 
of this. Yours truly, A Well-wisher.” 

Now it had happened that the embryo Mrs. Tickler’s 
most intimate bosom friend and confidante was known at 
Plumstead to live at Littlebath, and it had also happened 
— most unfortunately — that the embryo Mrs. Tickler, in the 
warmth of her neighborly regard, had written a friendly 
line to her friend Griselda Grantly, congratulating her with 
all female sincerity on her splendid nuptials with the Lord 
Dumbello. 

“ It is not her natural hand,” said Mrs. Grantly, talking 
the matter over with her husband, “ but you may be sure 
it has come from her. It is a part of the new Christianity 
which w^e learn day by day from the palace teaching.” 

But these things had some effect on the archdeacon’s 


494 


FBAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


mind. He had learned lately the story of Lady Julia Mac 
Mull, and was not sure that his son-in-law — as ought to he 
about to be — had been entirely blameless in that matter. 
And then in these days Lord Dumbello made no great 
sign. Immediately on Griselda’s return to Plumstead he 
had sent her a magnificent present of emeralds, which, how- 
ever, had come to her direct from the jeweler’s, and might 
have been — and probably was — ordered by his man of busi- 
ness. Since that he had neither come, nor sent, nor writ- 
ten. Griselda did not seem to be in any way annoyed by 
this absence of the usual sign of love, and went on steadily 
with her great duties. “ N othing,” as she told her moth- 
er, “ had been said about writing, and, therefore, she did 
not expect it.” But the archdeacon was not quite at his 
ease. “ Keep Dumbello up to his P’s and Q’s, you know,” 
a friend of his had whispered to him at his club. By 
heavens, yes. The archdeacon was not a man to bear with 
indifierence a wrong in such a quarter. In spite of his 
clerical profession, few men were more inclined to fight 
against personal wrongs, and few men more able. 

“ Can there be any thing wrong, I wonder ?” said he to 
his wife. “ Is it worth while that I should go up to Lon- 
don?’’ But Mrs. Grantly attributed it all to the palace 
doctrine. What could be more natural, looking at all the 
circumstances of the Tickler engagement ? She therefore 
gave her voice against any steps being taken by the arch- 
deacon. 

A day or two after that Mrs. Proudie met Mrs. Arabin 
in the Close, and condoled with her openly on the termina- 
tion of the marriage treaty— quite openly, for Mrs. Tickler 
— as she was to be — was with her mother, and Mrs. Arabin 
was accompanied by her sister-in-law, Mary Bold. 

“ It must be very grievous to Mrs. Grantly — very griev- 
ous indeed,” said Mrs. Proudie, “ and I sincerely feel for 
her. But, Mrs. Arabin, all these lessons are sent to us for 
our eternal welfare.” 

“Of course,” said Mrs. Arabin. “But as to this special 
lesson, I am inclined to doubt that it — ” 

“Ah-h! I fear it is too true. I fear there is no room 
for doubt. Of course you are aware that Lord Dumbello 
is off for the Continent ?” 

Mrs. Arabin was not aware of it, and she was obliged to 
admit as much. 


FRASILEY PARSONAGE. 


495 


“ He started four days ago, by way of Boulogne,” said 
Mrs. Tickler, who seemed to be very well up in the whole 
afiair. “ I am so sorry for poor dear Griselda. I am told 
she has got all her things. It is such a pity, you know.” 

“ But why should not Lord Dumbello come back from 
the Continent ?” said Miss Bold, very quietly. 

“ Why not, indeed ? I’m sure I hope he may,” said Mrs. 
Proudie. “ And no doubt he will, some day. But if he 
be such a man as they say he is, it is really well for Gri- 
selda that she should be relieved from such a marriage, for, 
after all, Mrs. Arabin, what are the things of this world ? — 
dust beneath our feet, ashes between our teeth, grass cut 
for the oven, vanity, vexation, and nothing more !” — well 
pleased with which variety of Christian metaphors Mrs. 
Proudie walked on, still muttering, however, something 
about worms and grubs, by which she intended to signify 
her own species and the Dumbello and Grantly sects of it 
in particular. 

This now had gone so far that Mrs. Arabin conceived 
herself bound in duty to see her sister, and it was then set- 
tled in consultation at Plumstead that the archdeacon 
should call officially at the palace and beg that the rumor 
might be contradicted. This he did early on the next 
morning, and was shown into the bishop’s study, in which 
he found both his lordship and Mrs. Proudie. The bishoj) 
rose to greet him with special civility, smiling his very 
sweetest on him, as though of all his clergy the archdeacon 
Avere the favorite ; but Mrs. Proudie wore something of a 
gloomy aspect, as though she knew that-such a visit at such 
an hour must have reference to some special business. The 
morning calls made by the archdeacon at the palace in the 
way of ordinary civility Avere not numerous. 

On the present occasion he dashed at once into his sub- 
ject. “ I have called this morning, Mrs. Proudie,” said he, 
“because I Avish to ask a favor from you.” Whereupon 
Mrs. Proudie bowed. 

“ Mrs. Proudie will be most happy, I am sure,” said the 
bishop. 

“I find that some foolish people have been talking in 
Barchester about my daughter,” said the archdeacon, “ and 
I wish to ask Mrs. Proudie — ” 

Most Avomen under such circumstances Avould have felt 
the aAvkwardness of their situation, and would have pro- 


496 


FKAMLEY TAllSONAGE. 


pared to eat their past words with wry faces. But not so 
Sirs. Proudie. Mrs. Grantly had had the imprudence to 
throw Mr. Slope in her face — there, in her own drawing- 
room, and she was resolved to be revenged. Mrs. Grant- 
ly, too, had ridiculed the Tickler match, and no too great 
niceness should now prevent Mrs. Proudie from speaking 
her mind about the Dumbello match. 

“ A great many people are talking about her, I am sorry 
to say,” said Mrs. Proudie; “but, poor dear, it is not her 
fault. It might have happened to any girl ; only, perhaps, 
a little more care — you’ll excuse me. Dr. Grantly.” 

“I have come here to allude to a report which has been 
spread about in Barchester that the match between Lord 
Dumbello and my daughter has been broken off; and — ” 

“ Every body in Barchester knows it, I believe,” said 
Mrs. Proudie. 

— “and,” continued the archdeacon, “ to request that that 
report may be contradicted.” 

“ Contradicted ! Why, he has gone right away — out of 
the country !” 

“Never mind where he has gone to, Mrs. Proudie; I 
beg that the report may be contradicted.” 

“ You’ll have to go round to every house in Barchester 
then,” said she. 

“By no means,” replied the archdeacon. “ And perhaps 
it may be right that I should explain to the bishop that I 
came here because — ” 

“ The bishop knows nothing about it,” said Mrs. Proudie. 

“ Nothing in the world,” said his lordship. “ And I am 
sure I hope that the young lady may not be disappointed.” 

— “ because the matter was so distinctly mentioned to 
Mrs. Arabin by yourself yesterday.” 

“Distinctly mentioned! Of course it was distinctly 
mentioned. There are some things which can’t be kept 
under a bushel. Dr. Grantly, and this seems to be one of 
them. Your going about in this way won’t make Lord 
Dumbello marry the young lady.” 

That was true ; nor would it make Mrs. Proudie hold her 
tongue. Perhaps the archdeacon was wrong in his present 
errand, and so he now began to bqthink himself. “At any 
rate,” said he, “ when I tell you that there is no ground 
whatever for such a report, you will do me the kindness to 
say that, as far as you are concerned, it shall go no far- 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


497 


ther. I think, my lord, I am not asking too much in asking 
that.” 

“The bishop knows nothing about it,” said Mrs.Prou- 
die again. 

“ Nothing at all,” said the bishop. 

“ And as I must protest that I believe the information 
which has reached me on this head,” said Mrs. Proudie, “I 
do not see how it is possible that I should contradict it. 
I can easily understand your feelings. Dr. Grantly. Con- 
sidering your daughter’s position, the match was, as re- 
gards earthly wealth, a very great one. I do not wonder 
that you should be grieved at its being broken off ; but I 
trust that this sorrow may eventuate in a blessing to you 
and to Miss Griselda. These worldly disappointments are 
precious balms, and I trust you know how to accept them 
as such.” 

The fact was that Dr. Grantly had done altogether ^vrong 
in coming to the palace. His wife might have some chance 
with Mrs. Proudie, but he had none. Since she had come 
to Barchester, he had had only two or three encounters 
with her, and in all of these he had gone to the wall. His 
visits to the palace always resulted in his leaving the pres- 
ence of the inhabitants in a frame of mind by no means de- 
sirable, and he now found that he had to do so once again. 
He could not compel Mrs. Proudie to say that the report 
was untrue, nor could he condescend to make counter hits 
at her about her own daughter, as his wife would have 
done. And thus, having utterly failed, he got up and took 
his leave. 

But the worst of the matter was, that, in going home, he 
could not divest his mind of the idea that there might be 
some truth in the report. What if Lord Dumbello had 
gone to the Continent resolved to send back from thence 
some reason why it was impossible that he should make 
Miss Grantly his wife ? Such things had been done before 
now by men in his rank. Whether or no Mrs. Tickler had 
been the letter-writing well-wisher from Littlebath, or had 
induced her friend to be so, it did seem manifest to him, 
Dr. Grantly, that Mrs. Proudie absolutely believed the re- 
port w^hich she promulgated so diligently. The wish might 
be father to the thought, no doubt; but that the thought 
was truly there. Dr. Grantly could not induce himself to 
disbelieve. 


498 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


His wife was less credulous, and to a certain degree com- 
forted him ; but that evening he received a letter which 
greatly confirmed the suspicions set on foot by Mrs. 
Proudie, and even shook his wife’s faith in Lord Dumbello. 
It was from a mere acquaintance, who in the ordinary 
course of things would not have written to him. And the 
bulk of the letter referred to ordinary things, as to which 
the gentleman in question would hardly have thought of 
giving himself the trouble to write a letter. But at the 
end of the note he said : 

“ Of course you are aware that Dumbello is off to Paris ; 
I have not heard whether the exact day of his return is 
fixed.” 

“ It is true, then,” said the archdeacon, striking the libra- 
ry table with his hand, and becoming absolutely white about 
the mouth and jaws. 

“ It can not be,” said Mrs. Grantly ; but even she was 
now trembling. 

“ If it be so. I’ll drag him back to England by the collar 
of his coat, and disgrace him before the steps of his father’s 
hall.” 

And the archdeacon, as he uttered the threat, looked his 
character as an irate British father much better than he did 
his other character as a clergyman of the Church of En- 
gland. Tlie archdeacon had been greatly worsted by Mrs. 
Proudie, but he was a man who knew how to fight his bat- 
tles among men — sometimes without too close a regard to 
his cloth. 

“ Had Lord Dumbello intended any such thing, he would 
have written, or got some friend to write by this time,” 
said Mrs. Grantly. “ It is quite possible that he might 
wish to be ofi*, but he would be too chary of his name not 
to endeavor to do so with decency.” 

Thus the matter was discussed, and it appeared to them 
both to be so serious that the archdeacon resolved to go at 
once to London. That Lord Dumbello had gone to France 
he did not doubt ; but he would find some one in town ac- 
quainted with the young man’s intentions, and he would, 
no doubt, be able to hear when his return was expected. 
If there were real reason for apprehension, he would follow 
the runagate to the Continent, but he would not do this 
without absolute knowledge. According to Lord Dum- 
bello’s present engagements, he was bound to present him- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


499 


self in August next at Plumstead Episcoj)!, with the view 
of then and there taking Griselda Grantly in marriage ; but 
if he kept his word in this respect, no one had a right to 
quarrel with him for going to Paris in the mean time. 
Most expectant bridegrooms would, no doubt, under such 
circumstances, have declared their intentions to their fu- 
ture brides; l3ut if Lord Dumbello were ditferent from 
others, who had a right on that account to be indignant 
with him ? He was unlike other men in other things, and 
especially unlike other men in being the eldest son of the 
Marquis of Hartletop. It would be all very well for Tick- 
ler to proclaim his whereabouts from week to week, but 
the eldest son of a marquis might find it inconvenient to 
be so precise. Nevertheless, the archdeacon thought it 
only prudent to go up to London. 

‘‘ Susan,” said the archdeacon to his wife, just as he was 
starting — at this moment neither of them were in the hap- 
piest spirits — “ I think I would say a word of caution to 
Griselda.” 

“ Do you feel so much doubt about it as that ?” said Mrs. 
Grantly. But even she did not dare to put a direct nega- 
tive to this proposal, so much had she been moved by what 
she had heard. 

“ I think I would do so, not frightening her more than I 
could help. It Avill lessen the blow if it be that the blow 
is to fall.” 

“ It will kill me,” said Mrs. Grantly, “ but I think that 
she will be able to bear it.” 

On the next morning, Mrs. Grantly, with much cunning 
preparation, went about the task which her husband had 
left her to perform. It took her long to do, for she was 
very cunning in the doing of it ; but at last it drojqDed from 
her in words that there was a possibility — a bare possibili- 
ty — that some disappointment might even yet be in store 
for them. 

“ Do you mean, mamma, that the marriage will be put 
off?” 

“ I don’t mean to say that I think it will ; God forbid ! 
but it is just possible. I dare say that I am very wrong to 
tell you of this, but I know that you have sense enough to 
bear it. ' Papa has gone to London, and we shall hear from 
him soon.” 

“ Then, mamma, I had better give them orders not to go 
on with the marking.” 


500 


FRAMLEY I* AES ON AGE. 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

LADY LUFTOn’S REQUEST. 

The bailiffs on that day had their meals regular, and 
their beer, which state of things, together with an absence 
of all duty in the way of making inventories and the like, 
I take to be the earthly paradise of bailiffs ; and on the 
next morning they walked off with civil speeches and many 
apologies as to their intrusion. “ They was very sorry,” 
they said, “ to have troubled a gen’leman as were a gen’le- 
man, but in their way of business what could they do ?” 
To which one of them added a remark that “ business is 
business.” This statement I am not prepared to contra- 
dict ; but I would recommend all men, in choosing a profes- 
sion, to avoid any that may require an apology at every 
turn — either an apology or else, a somewhat violent asser- 
tion of right. Each younger male reader may perhaps re- 
ply that he has no thought of becoming a sheriff’s officer ; 
but then are there not other cognate lines of life to which 
perhaps the attention of some such may be attracted ? 

On the evening of the day on which they went Mark re- 
ceived a note from Lady Lufton begging him to call early 
on the folloAving morning, and immediately after breakfast 
he went across to Framley Court. It may be imagined 
that he was not in a very happy frame of mind, but he felt 
the truth of his wife’s remark that the first plunge into cold 
water was always the worst. Lady Lufton was not a wom- 
an who would continually throw his disgrace into his teeth, 
however terribly cold might be the first words with which 
she spoke of it. He strove hard as he entered her room to 
carry his usual look and bearing, and to put out his hand 
to greet her with his customary freedom, but he knew that 
he failed. And it may be said that no good man who has 
broken down in his goodness can carry the disgrace of his 
fall without some look of shame. When a man is able to 
do that, he ceases to be in any way good. 

“This has been a distressing affair,” said Lady Lufton, 
after her first salutation. 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


501 


“ Yes, indeed,” said he. “ It has been very sad for poor 
Fanny.” 

“ Well, we must all have our little periods of grief; and 
it may perhaps be fortunate if none of us have worse than 
this. She will not complain, herself, I am sure.” 

“ She complain !” 

“No, I am sure she will not. And now all I’ve got to 
say, Mr. Robarts, is this : I hope you and Lufton have had 
enough to do with black sheep to last you your lives ; for I 
must protest that your late friend Mr. Sowerby is a black 
sheep.” 

In no possible way could Lady Lufton have alluded to 
the matter with greater kindness than in thus joining 
Mark’s name with that of her son. It took away all the 
bitterness of the rebuke, and made the subject one on which 
even he might have spoken without difficulty. But now, 
seeing that she was so gentle to him, he could not but lean 
the more hardly on himself. 

“ I have been very foolish,” said he — “ very foolish, and 
very wrong, and very wicked.” 

“Very foolish, I believe, Mr. Robarts, to speak frankly 
and once for all ; but, as I also believe, nothing worse. I 
thought it best for both of us that we should just have one 
word about it, and now I recommend that the matter be 
never mentioned between us again.” 

“ God bless you. Lady Lufton,” ho said. “ I think no 
man ever had such a friend as you are.” 

She had been very quiet during the interview, and almost 
subdued, not speaking with the animation that was usual 
to her ; for this affair with Mr. Robarts was not the only 
one she had to complete that day, nor, perhaps, the one 
most difficult of completion. But she cheered up a little 
under the praise now bestowed on her, for it was the sort 
of praise she loved best. She did hope, and, perhaps, flat- 
ter herself, that she was a good friend. 

“You must be good enough, then, to gratify my friend- 
ship by coming up to dinner this evening ; and Fanny too, 
of course. I can not take any excuse, for the matter is com- 
pletely arranged. I have a particular reason for wishing 
it.” These last violent injunctions had been added because 
Lady Lufton had seen a refusal rising in the parson’s face. 
Poor Lady Lufton ! Her enemies — for even she had ene- 
mies — used to declare of her that an invitation to dinner 


502 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


was the only method of showing itself of which her good- 
humor was cognizant. But let me ask of her enemies 
whether it is not as good a method as any other known to 
be extant ? Under such orders as these, obedience was of 
course a necessity, and he promised that he, with his wife, 
would come across to dinner. And then, when he went 
away. Lady Lufton ordered her carriage. 

During these doings at Framley Lucy Bobarts still re- 
mained at Hogglestock, nursing Mrs. Crawley. Nothing 
occurred to take her back to Framley ; for the same note 
from Fanny wLich gave her the first tidings of the arrival 
of the Philistines, told her also of their departure, and also 
of the source from whence relief had reached them. “ Don’t 
come, therefore, for that reason,” said the note, “ but, nev- 
ertheless, do come as quickly as you can, for the whole 
house is sad without you.” 

On the morning after the receipt of this note Lucy was 
sitting, as was now usual with her, beside an old arm-chair 
to which her patient had lately been promoted. The fever 
had gone, and Mrs. Crawley was slowly regaining her 
strength — very slowly, and with frequent caution from the 
Silverbridge doctor that any attempt at being well too fast 
might again precij^itate her into an abyss of illness and do- 
mestic inefficiency. 

“ I really think I can get about to-morrow,” said she ; 
“ and then, dear Lucy, I need not keep you longer from 
your home.” 

“You are in a great hurry to get rid of me, I think. I 
siq^pose Mr. Crawley has been comidaining again about the 
cream hi his tea.” Mr. Crawley had on one occasion stated 
his assured conviction that surreptitious daily supplies were 
being brought into the house, because he had detected the 
presence of cream instead of milk in his own cup. As, 
however, the cream had been going for sundry days before 
this. Miss Bobarts had not thought much of his ingenuity 
in making the discovery. 

“Ah! you do not know how he speaks of you when 
your back is turned.” 

“And how does he speak of me? I know you -would 
not have the courage to tell me the whole.” 

“No, I have not, for you would think it absurd, coming 
from one who looks like him. He says that if he were to 
write a poem about womanhood he would make you the 
heroine.” 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


503 


“With a cream-jug in my hand, or else sewing buttons 
on to a shirt collar. But he never forgave me about the 
mutton-broth. He told me, in so many words, that I was 
a — storyteller. And, for the matter of that, my dear, so I 
was.” 

“ He told me that you w^erc an angel.” 

“ Goodness gracious !” 

“ A ministering angel. And so you have been. I can 
almost feel it in my heart to be glad that I have been ill, 
seeing that I have had you for my friend.” 

“ But you might have had that good fortune without the 
fever.” 

“ ISTo, I should not. In my married life I have made no 
friends till my illness brought you to me; nor should I 
ever really have known you but for that. How should I 
get to know any one ?” 

“ You will now, Mrs. Crawley, will you not ? Promise 
that you will. You will come to us at Framley when you 
are well? You have promised already, you know.” 

“ You made me do so when I was too weak to refuse.” 

“And I shall make you keep your promise too. He 
shall come also, if he likes ; but you shall come, whether he 
likes or no. And I won’t hear a word about your old 
dresses. Old dresses will wear as well at Framley as at 
Hogglestock.” 

From all which it will appear that Mrs. Crawley and 
Lucy Robarts had become very intimate during this period 
of the nursing, as two women always will, or at least should 
do, when shut up for weeks together in the same sick-room. 

The conversation was still going on between them when 
the sound of wheels was heard upon the road. It was no 
highway that passed before the house, and carriages of any 
sort were not frequent there. 

“ It is Fanny, I am sure,” said Lucy, rising from her 
chair. 

“ There are two horses,” said Mrs. Crawley, distinguish- 
ing the noise with the accurate sense of hearing which is 
always attached to sickness ; “ and it is not the noise of 
the pony carriage.” 

“ It is a regular carriage,” said Lucy, speaking from the 
window, “ and stopping here. It is somebody from Fram- 
ley Court, for I know the servant.” 

As she spoke a blush came to her forehead. Might it 


504 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


not be Lord Lufton ? she thought to herself, forgetting at 
the moment that Lord Lufton did not go about the coun- 
try in a close chariot with a fat footman. Intimate as she 
had become with Mrs. Crawley, she had said nothing to 
her new friend on the subject of her love affair. 

The carriage stopped, and down came the footman, but 
nobody spoke to him from the inside. 

“ He has probably brought something from Framley,*’ 
said Lucy, having cream and such like matters in her mind ; 
for cream and such like matters had come from Framley 
Oourt more than once during her sojourn there. “And 
the carriage, probably, happened to be coming this way.” 

But the mystery soon elucidated itself partially, or, per- 
haps, became more mysterious in another way. The red- 
armed little girl, who had been taken away by her fright- 
ened mother in the first burst of the fever, had now re- 
turned to her place, and at the present moment entered 
the room, with awe-struck face, declaring that JMiss Ro- 
barts was to go at once to the big lady in the carriage. 

“ I suppose it’s Lady Lufton,” said Mrs. Crawley. 

Lucy’s heart was so absolutely in her mouth that any 
kind of speech was at the moment impossible to her. Why 
should Lady Lufton have come thither to Hogglestock, 
and why should she want to see her, Lucy Robarts, in the 
carriage? Had not every thing between them been set- 
tled ? And yet — Lucy, in the moment for thought that 
was allowed to her, could not determine what might be 
the probable upshot of such an interview. Her chief feel- 
ing was a desire to postpone it for the present instant. But 
the red-armed little girl would not allow that. 

“ You are to come at once,” said she. 

And then Lucy, without having spoken a word, got up 
and left the room. She walked down stairs, along the lit- 
tle passage, and out through the small garden, with firm 
steps, but hardly knowing whither she went, or Avhy. Her 
presence of mind and self-possession had all deserted her. 
She knew that she was unable to speak as she should do ; 
she felt that she would have to regret her present behavior, 
but yet she could not help herself. Why should Lady 
Lufton have come to her there ? She went on, and the big 
footman stood with the carriage door open. She stepped 
up almost unconsciously, and, without knowing how she 
got there, she found herself seated by Lady Lufton. 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


505 


To tell the truth, her ladyship also was a little at a loss 
to know how she was to carry through her present plan 
of operations. The duty of beginning, however, was clear- 
ly with her, and therefore, having taken Lucy by the hand, 
she spoke. 

“ Miss Robarts,” she said, “ my son has come home. I 
don’t know whether you are aware of it.” 

She spoke with a low, gentle voice, not quite like herself, 
but Lucy was much too confused to notice this. 

“ I was not aware of it,” said Lucy. 

She had, however, been so informed in Fanny’s letter, 
but all that had gone out of her head. 

“ Yes, he has come back. He has been in Norway, you 
know — fishing.” 

“ Yes,” said Lucy. 

“I am sure you will remember all that took place when 
you came to me, not long ago, in my little room iij) stairs 
at Framley Court.” 

In answer to which, Lucy, quivering in every nerve, and 
wrongly thinking that she was visibly shaking in every 
limb, timidly answered that she did remember. Why was 
it that she had then been so bold, and now was so poor a 
coward ? 

“ Well, my dear, all that I said to you then I said to you 
thinking that it was for the best. You, at any rate, will 
not be angry with me for loving my own son better than I 
love any one else.” 

“ Oh no,” said Lucy. 

“ He is the best of sons, and the best of men, and I am 
sure that he will be the best of husbands.” 

Lucy had an idea, by instinct, however, rather than by 
sight, that Lady Lufton’s eyes were full of tears as she 
spoke. As for herself, she was altogether blinded, and did 
not dare to lift her face or to turn her head. As for the 
utterance of any sound, that was quite out of the question. 

“And now I have come here, Lucy, to ask you to be his 
wife.” 

She was quite sure that she heard the words. They 
came plainly to her ears, leaving on her brain their proper 
sense, but yet she could not move or make any sign that 
she had understood them. It seemed as though it would 
be ungenerous in her to take advantage of sudi conduct, 
and to accept an offer made with so much self-sacrifice. 


506 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


She had not time at the first moment to think even of his 
happiness, let alone her own, bat she thought only of the 
magnitude of the concession which had been made to her. 
When she had constituted Lady Lufton the arbiter of her 
destiny, she had regarded the question of her love as deci- 
ded against herself. She had found herself unable to en- 
dure the position of being Lady Lufton’s daughter-in-law 
while Lady Lufton would be scorning her, and therefore 
she had given up the game. She had given up the game, 
sacrificing herself, and, as far as it might be a sacrifice, sac- 
rificing him also. She had been resolute to stand t^her 
word in this respect, but she had never allowed herself to 
think it possible that Lady Lufton should comply with the 
conditions which slie; Lucy, had laid upon her. And yet 
such was the case, as she so plainly heard. “ And now I 
have come here, Lucy, to ask you to be his wife.” 

How long they sat together silent I can not say ; count- 
ed by minutes, the time Avould not probably have amount- 
ed to many, but to each of them the duration seemed con- 
siderable. Lady Lufton, while she was speaking, had con- 
trived to get hold of Lucy’s hand, and she sat, still holding 
it, trying to look into Lucy’s face, which, however, she 
could hardly see, so much was it turned away. Neither, 
indeed, were Lady Lufton’s eyes perfectly dry. No an- 
swer came to her question, and therefore, after a -while, it 
was necessary that she should -speak again. 

“ Must I go back to him, Lucy, and tell him that there is 
some other objection — something besides a stern old moth- 
er — some hinderance, perhaps, not so easily overcome?” 

“Nd,” said Lucy; and it was all which at the moment 
she could say. 

“ Wliat shall I tell him, then ? Shall I say yes — simply 
yes?” 

“ Simply yes,” said Lucy. 

“ And as to the stern old mother, who thought her only 
son too precious to be parted with at the first v>mrd— is 
nothing to be said to ber ?” 

‘‘Oh, Lady Lufton!” 

^ “No forgiveness to be spoken, no sign of affection to be 
given ? Is she always to be regarded as stern and cross, 
vexatious and disagreeable ?” 

Lucy slowly turned round her head, and looked up into 
her companion’s face. Though she had as yet no voice to 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


607 


speak of affection, she could fill her eyes with love, and in 
that way make to her future mother all the promises that 
were needed. 

“Lucy, dearest Lucy, you must be very dear to me 
now.” And then they were in each other’s arms, kissing 
each other. 

Lady Lufton now desired her coachman to drive up and 
down for some little space along the road, while she com- 
pleted her necessary conversation with Lucy. She wanted 
at first to carry her back to Framley that evening, promis- 
ing to send her again to Mrs. Crawley on the following 
morning — “ till some permanent arrangement could be 
made,” by which Lady Lufton intended the substitution 
of a regular nurse for her future daughter-in-law, seeing 
that Lucy Robarts was now invested in her eyes with at- 
tributes which made it unbecoming that she should sit in 
attendance at Mrs. Crawley’s bedside. But Lucy would 
not go back to Framley on that evening — no, nor on the 
next morning. She would be so glad if Fanny would 
come to her there, and then she would arrange about go- 
ing home. 

“But, Lucy, dear, what am I to say to Ludovic? Per- 
haps you would feel it awkward if he were to come to see 
you here ?” 

“ Oh yes. Lady Lufton ; pray tell him not to do that.” 

“ And is that all that I am to tell him ?” 

“Tell him — tell him — He won’t want you to tell him 
any tiling ; only I should like to be quiet for a day. Lady 
Lufton.” 

“ Well, dearest, you shall be quiet ; the day after to-mor- 
row, then. Mind, we must not spare you any longer, be- 
cause it will be right that you should be at home now. Ho 
Avould think it very hard if you were to be so near, and ho 
was not to be allowed to look at you. And there will be 
some one else who will want to see you. I shall want to 
have you very near to me, for I shall be wretched, Lucy, 
if I can not teach you to love me.” In answer to which, 
Lucy did find voice enough to make sundry promises. ^ 

And then she was put out of the carriage at the little 
wicket gate, and Lady Lufton was driven back to Fram- 
ley. I wonder whether the servant, when he held the door 
for Miss Robarts, was conscious that he was waiting on 
his futurer mistress ? I fancy that he was, for these sort of 


508 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


people always know every thing, and the peculiar courtesy 
of his demeanor as he let down the carriage steps was very 
observable. 

Lucy felt almost beside herself as she returned up stairs, 
not knowing what to do, or how to look, and with what 
words to speak. It behooved her to go at once to Mrs. 
Crawley’s room, and yet she longed to be alone. She knew 
that she was quite unable either to conceal her thoughts 
or express them ; nor did she wish, at the present moment, 
to talk to any one about her happiness, seeing that she 
could not, at the present moment, talk to Fanny Robarts. 
She went, however, without delay into Mrs. Crawley’s room, 
and with that little eager way . of speaking quickly which 
is so common with people who know that they are con- 
fused, said that she feared she had been a very long time 
away. 

“ And Avas it Lady Lufton ?” 

“Yes, it Avas Lady Lufton.” 

“ Why, Lucy, I did not know that you and her ladyshi]? 
Avere such friends.” 

“ She had something particular she wmnted to say,” said 
Lucy, avoiding the question, and aA^oiding also Mrs. CraAA'- 
iey’s eyes ; and then she sat doAvn in her usual chair. 

“ It Avas nothing unpleasant, I hope ?” 

“No, nothing at all unpleasant — nothing of that kind. 
Oh, Mrs. CraAvley, I’ll tell you some other time, but pray 
do not ask me iioav.” And then she got up and escaj^ed, 
for it Avas absolutely necessary that she should be alone. 

When slie reached her OAvn room — that in Avhich the 
children usually slept — she made a great effort to compose 
lierself, but not altogether successfully. She got out her 
paper and blotting-book, intending, as she said to herself, 
to Avrite to Fanny, knoAving, however, that the letter, Av^hen 
Avritten, Avould be destroyed ; but she Avas not able even 
to form a Avord. Her hand Avas unsteady, and her eyes 
Avere dim, and her thoughts Avere incapable of being fixed. 
Slie could only sit, and think, and Avonder, and hope ; oc- 
casionally Aviping the tears from her eyes, and asking her- 
self Avhy her present frame of mind was so painful to her. 
During the last tAvo or three months she had felt no fear 
of Lord Lufton, had ahvays carried herself before him, on 
equal terms, and had been signally capable of doing so 
Avhcn he made his declaration to her at the Parsonage ; bqt 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


509 


now she looked forward with an undefined dread to the 
first moment in which she should see him. 

• And then she thought of a certain evening she had passed 
at Framley Court, and acknowledged to herself that there 
was some pleasure in looking hack to that. Griselda Grant- 
ly had been there, and all the constitutional powers of the 
two families had been at work to render easy a process of 
love-making between her and Lord Lufton. Lucy had seen 
and understood it all, without knowing that she understood 
it, and had, in a certain degree, suffered from beholding it. 
She. had placed herself apart, not complaining — painfully 
conscious of some inferiority, but, at the same time, almost 
boasting to herself that in her own way she was the supe- 
rior. And then he had come behind her chair, whispering 
to her, speaking to her his first words of kindness and good- 
nature, and she had resolved that she would be his friend 
— his friend, even though Griselda Grantly might be his 
wife. What those resolutions were worth had soon • be- 
come manifest to her. She had soon confessed to herself 
the result of that friendship, and had determined to bear 
her punishment with courage. But now — 

She sat so for about an hour, and would fain have so sat 
out the day. But, as this could not be, she got up, and, 
having washed her face and eyes, returned to Mrs. Craw- 
ley’s room. There she found Mr. Crawley also, to her great 
joy, for she knew that while he was there no questions 
would be asked of her. He was always very gentle to her, 
treating her with an old-fashioned polished respect — except 
when compelled, on that one occasion, by his sense of duty, 
to accuse her of mendacity respecting the purveying of 
victuals — but he had never become absolutely familiar with 
her, as his wife had done ; and it was well for her now that 
he had not done so, for she could not have talked about 
Lady Lufton. 

In the evening, when the three were present, she did 
manage to say that she expected Mrs. Robarts would come 
over on the following day. 

“We shall part with you, Miss Robarts, with the deep- 
est regret,” said Mr. Crawley ; “ but we would not, on any 
account, keep you longer. Mrs. Crawley can do without 
you now. What she would have done had yon not come 
to us, I am at a loss to think.” 

“ I did not say that I should go,” said Lucy. 


510 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


“But you will,” said Mrs. Crawley. “Yes, dear, you 
will. I know that it is proper now that you should return. 
Nay, but we will not have you any longer. And the poor 
dear children, too, they may return. How am I to thank 
Mrs. Robarts for what she has done for us ?” 

It was settled that if Mrs. Robarts came on the following 
day Lucy should go back with her; and then, during the 
long watches of the night — for on this last night Lucy 
would not leave the bedside of her new friend till long 
after the dawn had broken — she did tell Mrs. Crawley what 
was to be her destiny in life. To herself there seemed 
nothing strange in her new position, but to Mrs. Crawley 
it was wonderful that she — she, poor as she was — should 
have an embryo peeress at her bedside, handing her her 
cup to drink, and smoothing her pillow that she might be 
at rest. It was strange, and she could hardly maintain her 
accustomed familiarity. Lucy felt this at the moment. 

“ It must make no difference, you know,” said she, eag- 
erly — “none at all between you and me. Promise me 
that it shall make no difference.” 

The promise was of course exacted, but it was not pos- 
sible that such a promise should be kept. 

Very early on the following morning — so early that it 
woke her Avhile still in her first sleep — there came a letter 
for her from the Parsonage. Mrs. Robarts had written it 
after her return home from Lady Lufton’s dinner. 

The letter said : 

“Mr OWN OWN Darling, — IIow am I to congratulate you, and be 
eager enough in wishing you joy ? I do wish you joy, and am so very 
happy. I write now chiefly to say that I shall be over with you about 
twelve to-morrow, and that I must bring you aw’ay with me. If I did 
not, some one else, by no means so trustworthy, would insist on doing it.” 

But this, though it was thus stated to be the chief part of 
the letter, and though it might be so in matter, was by no 
means so in space. It was very long, for Mrs. Robarts had 
sat writing it till past midnight. 

“I will not say any thing about him,” she w'ent on to say, after two 
pages had been filled with his name, “but I must tell you how beauti- 
fully she has behaved. You will own that she is a dear woman, will 
you not?” 

Lucy had already owned it many times since the visit of 
yesterday, and had declared to herself, as she has continued 
to declare ever since, that she had never doubted it. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


611 


“ She took us by surprise when -we got into the drawing-room before 
dinner, and she told us first of all that she had been to see you at Hog- 
glestock. Lord Lufton, of course, could not keep the secret, but brought 
it out instantly. I can’t tell you now how he told it all, but I am sure 
you will believe that he did it in the best possible manner. He took 
my hand and pressed it half a dozen times, and I thought he was going 
to do something else ; but he did not, so you need not be jealous. And 
she was so nice to Mark, saying such things in praise of you, and pay- 
ing all manner of compliments to your father. But Lord Lufton scold- 
ed her immensely for not bringing you. lie said it was lackadaisical 
and nonsensical ; but I could see how much he loved her for what she 
had done, and she could see it too, for I know her ways, and know that 
she was delighted with him. She could not keep her eyes off him all 
the evening, and certainly I never did see him look so well. 

“ And then, while Lord Lufton and Mark were in the dining-room, 
where they remained a terribly long time, she would make me go 
through the house, that she might show me your rooms, and explain 
how you were to be mistress there. She has got it all arranged to per- 
fection, and I am sure she has been thinking about it for years. Her 
great fear at present is that you and he should go and live at Lufton. 
If you have any gratitude in you, either to her or me, you will not let 
him do this. I consoled her by saying that there are not two stones 
upon one another at Lufton as yet, and I believe such is the case. Be- 
sides, every body says that it is the ugliest spot in the world. She went 
on to declare, "with tears in her eyes, that if you were content to remain at 
Framley, she would never interfere in any thing. I do think that she 
is the best woman that ever lived.” 

So much as I have given of this letter formed but a 
small portion of it, but it comprises all that it is necessary 
that we should know. Exactly at twelve o’clock on that 
day Puck the pony appeared, with Mrs. Robarts and Grace 
Crawley behind him, Grace having been brought back as 
being capable of some service in the house. Nothing that 
was confidential, and very little that was loving, could be 
said at the moment, because Mr. Crawley was there, wait- 
ing to bid Miss Robarts adieu ; and he had not as yet been 
informed of what was to be the future fate of his visitor. 
So they could only press each other’s liands and embrace, 
which to Lucy was almost a relief; for even to her sister- 
in-law she hardly as yet knew how to speak openly on this 
subject. 

“ May God Almighty bless you. Miss Robarts,” said Mr. 
Crawley, as he stood in his dingy sitting-room ready to 
lead her out to the pony carriage. “You have brought 
sunshine into this house even in the time of sickness, when 
there was no sunshine ; and He will bless you. You have 
been the good Samaritan, binding up the wounds of the 


512 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


afflicted, pouring in oil and balm. To the mother of my 
children you have given life, and to me you have brought 
light, and comfort, and good words, making my spirit glad 
within me, as it had not been gladdened before. All this 
hath come of charity, which vaunteth not itself and is not 
puffed up. Faith and hope are great and beautiful, but 
charity exceedeth them all.” And, having so spoken, in- 
stead of leading her out, he went away and hid himself. 

How Puck behaved himself as Fanny drove him back to 
Framley, and how those two ladies in the carriage behaved 
themselves — of that, perhaps, nothing farther need bo said. 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

NEMESIS. 

But, in spite of all these joyful tidings, it must, alas ! be 
remembered that Poena, that just but Rhadaman thine god- 
dess, whom we moderns ordinarily call Punishment, or 
Xemesis when we wish to speak of her goddess-ship, very 
seldom fails to catch a wicked man, though she have some- 
times a lame foot of her own, and though the wicked man 
may possibly get a start of her. In this instance the wick- 
ed man had been our unfortunate friend Mark Robaits — 
wicked in that he had wittingly touched pitch, gone to 
Gatherum Castle, ridden fast mares across the country to 
Cobbold’s Ashes, and fallen very imprudently among the 
Tozers ; and the instrument used by Xemesis was Mr. Tom 
Towers, of the Jupiter^ than whom, in these our days, there 
is no deadlier scourge in the hands of that goddess. 

In the first instance, however, I must mention, though I 
will not relate, a little conversation which took place be- 
tween Lady Lufton and Mr. Robarts. That gentleman 
thought it right to say a few words more to her ladyship 
respecting those money transactions. He could not but 
feel, he said, that he had received that prebendal stall f^om 
the hands of Mr. Sowerby, and, under such circumstances, 
considering all that had happened, he could not be easy in 
his mind as long as he held it. What he was about to do 
would, he was aware, delay considerably his final settle- 
ment with Lord Lufton ; but Lufton, he hoped, would par- 
don that, and agree with him as to the propriety of what 
he was about to do. 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


513 


On the first blush of the thing, Lady Lufton did not 
quite go along with him. Now that Lord Lufton was to 
marry the parson’s sister, it might be well that the parson 
should be a dignitary of the Church ; and it might be well, 
also, that one so nearly connected with her son should be 
comfortable in his money-matters. There loomed, also, in 
the future, some distant possibility of higher clerical hon- 
ors for a peer’s brother-in-law, and the top rung of the lad- 
der is always more easily attained when a man has already 
ascended a step or tw^o. But, nevertheless, when the mat- 
ter came to be fully explained to her, when she saw clearly 
the circumstances under which the stall had been confer- 
red, she did agree that it had better be given up. 

And well for both of them it was — well for them all at 
Framley — that this conclusion had been reached before the 
scourge of Nemesis had fallen. Nemesis, of course, de- 
clared that her scourge had produced the resignation ; but 
it was generally understood that this was a false boast, for 
all clerical men at Barchester knew that the stall had been 
restored to the chapter, or, in other words, into the hands 
of the government, before Tom Towers had twirled the 
fatal lash above his head. But the manner of the twirling 
was as follows : 

“It is with difficulty enough,” said the article in the Jupiter^ “ that 
the Church of England maintains at the present moment that ascend- 
ency among the religious sects of this country which it so IcHidly claims. 
And perhaps it is rather from an old-fashioned and time-honored affec- 
tion for its standing than from any intrinsic merits of its own that some 
such general acknowledgment of its ascendency is still allowed to pre- 
vail. If, however, the patrons and clerical members of this Church are 
bold enough to disregard all general rules of decent behavior, we think 
we may predict that this chivalrous feeling will be found to give way. 
From time to time we hear of instances of such imprudence, and arc 
made to w'onder at the folly of those who are supposed to hold the State 
Church in the greatest reverence. • 

“ Among those positions of dignified ease to which fortunate clergy- 
men maybe promoted are the stalls of the canons or prebendaries in our 
eathedrals. Some of these, as is well knowm, carry little or no emolu- 
ment with them, but some are rich in the good things of this w'orld. 
Excellent family houses are attached to them, with we hardly know what 
domestic privileges, and clerical incomes, moreover, of an amount w'hich, 
if divided, would make glad the hearts of many a hard-working clerical 
slave. Reform has been busy even among these stalls, attaching some 
amount of work to the pay, and paring off some superfluous wealth from 
such of them as w'ere over full ; but reform has been lenient with them, 
acknowledging that it w\as well to have some such ])laces of comfortable 
and dignified retirement for those who have worn themselves out in the 


514 


FKAMLEY PAliSONAGE. 


hard work of their profession. There has of late prevailed a taste for 
the appointment of young bishops, produced, no doubt, by a feeling that 
bishops should be men fitted to get through really hard work ; but we 
have never heard that young prebendaries were considered desirable. 
A clergyman selected for such a position should, we have always thought, 
have earned an evening of ease by a long day of work, and should, 
above all things, be one whose life has been, and therefore, in human 
probability, will be, so decorous as to be honorable to the cathedral of 
liis adoption. 

“ We were, however, the other day given to understand that one of 
these luxurious benefices, belonging to the cathedral of Barchester, had 
been bestowed on the Bev. Mark Robarts, the vicar of a neighboring 
parish, on the understanding that he should hold the living and the stall 
together ; and, on making farther inquiry, we were surprised to learn 
that this fortunate gentleman is as yet considerably under thirty years 
of age. We were desirous, however, of believing that his learning, his 
piety, and his conduct might be of a nature to add peculiar grace to his 
chapter, and therefore, though almost unwillingly, we were silent. But 
now it has come to our ears, and, indeed, to the ears of all the world, 
that this piety and conduct are sadly wanting ; and, judging of Mr. Ro- 
barts by his life and associates, we arc inclined to doubt even the learn- 
ing. He has at this moment, or, at any rate, had but a few days since, 
an execution in his parsonage house at Framley, on the suit of certain 
most disreputable bill-discounters in London, and probably Avould have 
another execution in bis other house in Barchester Close but for the fact 
that he has never thought it necessary to go into residence.” 

Then followed some very stringent, and, no doubt, much- 
needed advice to those clerical members of the Church of 
England who are supposed to be mainly responsible for 
the conduct of their brethren; and the article ended as 
follows : 

“ Many of these stalls are in the gift of the respective deans and chap- 
ters, and in such cases the dean and chapters are bound to see that 
proper persons are appointed ; but in other instances the power of selec- 
tion is vested in the crown, and then an equal responsibility rests on the 
government of the day. Mr. Robarts, we learn, was appointed to the 
stall of Barchester by the late prime minister, and we really think that 
a grave censure rests on him for the manner in which his patronage has 
been exercised. It may be impossible that he should himself, in all such 
cases, satisfy himself by personal inquiry. But our government is alto- 
gether conducted on the footing of vicarial responsibility. Quod Jacit 
per alimn, fadt per se, is in a special manner true of our ministers, and 
any man who rises to high position among them must abide by the dan- 
ger thereby incurred. In this peculiar case we arc informed that the 
recommendation was made by a very recently admitted member of the 
cabinet, to whose appointment we alluded at the time as a great mis- 
take. The gentleman in question held no high individual office of his 
own ; but evil such as this which has now been done at Barchester is 
exactly the sort of mischief which follows the exaltation of unfit men to 
high positions, even though no great scope for executive failure may be 
j laccd wiiliin ihcir reach. 


FEAMLEY FAESONAGE. 


515 


“If Mr. Robarts will allow us to tender to him our advice, fie will 
lose no time in going through such ceremony as may be necessary again 
to place the stall at the disposal of the crown !” 

I may here observe that- poor Harold Smith, when he 
read this, writhing in agony, declared it to be the handi- 
work of his hated enemy, Mr. Supplehouse. He knew the 
mark ; so, at least, he said ; but I myself am inclined to 
believe that his animosity misled him. I think that one 
greater than Mr. Supplehouse had taken upon himself the 
punishment of our poor vicar. 

This was very dreadful to them all at Framley, and, 
Avhen first read, seemed to crush them to atoms. Poor 
Mrs. Robarts, when she heard it, seemed to think that for 
them the world was over. An attempt had been made to 
keep it from her, but such attempts always fail, as did this. 
The article was copied into all the good-natured local news- 
papers, and she soon discovered that something was being 
hidden. At last it was shown to her by her husband, and 
then for a few hours she was annihilated ; for a few days 
she was unwilling to show herself ; and for a few W'eeks 
she was very sad. But after that the world seemed to go 
on much as it had done before ; the sun shone upon them 
as warmly as though the article had not been written ; 
and not only the sun of heaven, which, as a rule, is not 
limited in his shining by any display of pagan thunder, but 
also the genial sun of their own sphere^ the warmth and 
light of which were so essentially necessary to their happi- 
ness. Neighboring rectors did not look glum, nor did the 
rectors’ wives refuse to call. The people in the shops at 
Barchester did not regard her as though she were a dis- 
graced woman, though it must be acknowledged that Mrs. 
Proudie passed her in the Close with the coldest nod of 
recognition. 

On Mrs. Proudie’s mind alone did the article s^m to 
have any enduring effect. In one respect it was, perhaps, 
beneficial ; Lady Lufton was at once induced by it to make 
common cause with her own clergyman, and thus the re- 
membrance of Mr. Robarts’ sins passed away the quicker 
from the minds of the whole Framley Court household. 

And, indeed, the county at large was not able to give to 
the matter that undivided attention which would have been 
considered its due at periods of no more than ordinary in- 
terest. At the present moment preparations were being 


61G 


FKAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


made for a general election, and, althoiigli no contest was 
to take place in the eastern division, a very violent fight 
was being carried on in the west; and the circumstances 
of that fight were so exciting that Mr. Robarts and his ar- 
ticle were forgotten before their time. An edict had gone 
forth from Gatherum Castle directing that Mr. Sowerby 
should be turned out, and an answering note of defiance 
had been sounded from Chaldicotes, protesting, on behalf of 
Mr. Sowerby, that the duke’s behests would not be obeyed. 

There are two classes of persons in this realm who are 
constitutionally inefl&cient to take any part in returning 
members to Parliament — peers, namely, and women ; and 
yet it was soon known through the whole length and 
breadth of the county that the present electioneering fight 
was being carried on between a peer and a woman. Miss 
Dunstable had been declared the purchaser of the Chase 
of Chaldicotes, as it were just in the very nick of time; 
which purchase — so men in Barsetshire declared, not know- 
ing any thing of the facts — would have gone altogether the 
other way, had not the giants obtained temporary suprem- 
acy over the gods. The duke was a supporter of the gods, 
and therefore, so Mr. Fothergill hinted, his money had been 
refused. , Miss Dunstable was prepared to beard this ducal 
friend of the gods in his own county, and therefore her 
money had been taken. I am inclined, however, to think 
that Mr. Fothergill knew nothing about it, and to opine 
that Miss Dunstable, in her eagerness for victory, offered 
to the crown more money than the property was worth in 
the duke’s opinion, and that the crown took advantage of 
her anxiety, to the manifest profit of the public at large. 

And it soon became known, also, that Miss Dunstable 
was, in fact, the proprietor of the whole Chaldicotes estate, 
and that in promoting the success of Mr. Sowerby as a 
candidate for the county she was standing by her own 
tenanf. It also became known, in the course of. the battle, 
that Miss Dunstable had herself at last succumbed, and 
that she was about to marry Dr. Thorne of Greshamsbury, 
or the “ Greshamsbury apothecary,” as the adverse party 
now delighted to call him. “He has been little better 
than a quack all his life,” said Dr. Fillgrave, the eminent 
physician of Barchester, “ and now he is going to marry a 
quack’s daughter.” By which, and the like to which. Dr. 
Thorne did not allow himself to be much annoyed. 


FEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


517 


But all tills gave rise to a very pretty series of squibs 
arranged between Mr. Fotliergill and Mr. Closerstil, the 
electioneering agent. . Mr. Sowerby was named “ the lady’s 
pet,” and descriptions were given of the lady who kept 
this pet which were by no means flattering to Miss Dun- 
stable’s appearance,. or manners, or age. And then the 
western division of the county was asked in a grave tone 
— as counties and boroughs are asked by means of adver- 
tisements stuck up on blind walls and barn doors — whether 
it was fltting and proper that it should be represented by 
a woman. Upon which the county was again asked wheth- 
er it was fltting and proper that it should be represented 
by a duke. And then the question became more personal 
as against Miss Dunstable, and inquiry was urged whether 
the county would not be indelibly disgraced if it were not 
only handed over to a woman, but handed over to a woman 
who sold the oil of Lebanon. But little was got by this 
move, for an answering placard explained to the unfortu- 
nate county how deep would be its shame if it allowed it- 
self to become the appanage of any peer, but more espe- 
cially of a peer who was known to be the most immoral 
lord that ever disgraced the benches of the Upper House. 

And so the battle went on very prettily, and, as money 
was allowed to flow freely, the W est Barsetshire world at 
large was not ill satisfied. It is wonderful how much dis- 
grace of that kind a borough or county can endure without 
flinching; and wonderful also, seeing how supreme is the 
value attached to the Constitution by the realm at large, 
how very little the principles of that Constitution are val- 
ued by the people in detail. The duke, of course, did not 
show himself. He rarely did on any occasion, and never 
on such occasions as this; but Mr. Fothergill was to be 
seen every where. Miss Dunstable, also, did not hide her 
light under a bushel ; though I here declare, on the faith 
of a historian, that the rumor spread abroad of her having 
made g, speech to the electors from the top of the porch 
over the hotel door at Courcy was not founded on fact. 
'No doubt she was at Courcy, and her carriage stopped at 
the hotel ; but neither there nor elsewhere did she make 
any public exhibition. “ They must have mistaken me for 
Mrs. Proudie,” she said, when the rumor reached her ears. 

But there was, alas ! one great element of failure on Miss 
Dunstable’s side of the battle. Mr. Sowerby himself could 


518 


FKAMLEY PAKSONAGE. 


not be induced to fight it as became a man. Any positive 
injunctions that were laid upon him he did in a sort obey. 
It had been a part of the bargain that he should stand the 
contest, and from that bargain he could not well go back ; 
but he had not the spirit left to him for any true fighting 
on his own part. He could not go up on the hustings, and 
there defy the duke. Early in the affair Mr. Fothergill 
challenged him to do so, and Mr. Sowerby never took up 
the gauntlet. 

“ We have heard,” said Mr. Fothergill, in that great 
speech (N which he made at the Omnium Arms at Silver- 
bridge — “ we have heard much during this election of the 
Duke of Omnium, and of the injuries which he is supposed 
to have inflicted on one of the candidates. The duke’s 
name is very frequent in the mouths of the gentlemen — 
and of the lady — who support Mr. Sowerby’s claims. But 
I do not think that Mr. Sowerby himself has dared to say 
much about the duke. I defy Mr. Sowerby to mention the 
duke’s name upon the hustings.” 

And it so happened that Mr. Sowerby never did mention 
the duke’s name. 

It is ill fighting when the spirit is gone, and Mr. Sower- 
by’s spirit for such things was now well-nigh broken. It 
is true that he had escaped from the net in which the duke, 
by Mr. Fothergill’s aid, had entangled hiin, but he had only 
broken out of one captivity into another. Money is a seri- 
ous thing, and, when gone, can not be had back by a shuffle 
in the game, or a fortunate blow with the battledoor, as 
may political power, or reputation, or fashidn. One hund- 
red thousand pounds gone must remain as gone, let the 
person who claims to have had the honor of advancing it be 
Mrs. B. or my Lord C. No lucky dodge can erase such a 
claim from the things that be, unless, indeed, such dodge 
be possible as Mr. Sowerby tried with Miss Dunstable. 
It was better for him, undoubtedly, to have the lady for a 
creditor than the duke, seeing that it was possible for him 
to live as a tenant in his own old house under the lady’s 
reign. But this he found to be a sad enough life, after all 
that was come and gone. 

The election on Miss Dunstable’s part was lost. . She 
carried on the contest nobly, fighting it to the last moment, 
and sparing neither her own money nor that of her antag- 
onist ; but she carried it on unsuccessfully. Many gentle- 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


619 


men did support Mr. Sowerby because they were willing 
enough to emancipate their county from the duke’s thral- 
dom ; but Mr. Sowerby was felt to be a black sheep, as 
Lady Lufton had called him, and at the close of the elec- 
tion he found himself banished from the representation of 
W est Barchester — banished forever, after having held the 
county for five-and-twenty years. 

Unfortunate Mr. Sowerby ! I can not take leave of him 
here without some feeling of regret, knowing that there 
was that within him which might, under better guidance, 
have produced better things. There are men, even of high 
birth, who seem as though they were born to be rogues ; 
but Mr. Sowerby was, to my thinking, born to be a gen- 
tleman. That he had not been a gentleman — that he had 
bolted from his appointed course, going terribly on the 
wrong side of the posts — let us all acknowledge. It is not 
a gentleman-like deed, but a very blackguard action, to ob- 
tain a friend’s acceptance to a bill in an unguarded hour 
of social intercourse. That and other similar doings have 
stamped his character too plainly. But, nevertheless, I 
claim a tear for Mr. Sowerby, and lament that he has failed 
to run his race discreetly, in accordance with the rules of 
the Jockey Club. ' ' 

He attempted that plan of living as a tenant in his old 
liouse at Chaldicotes, and of making a living out of the 
land which he farmed ; but he soon abandoned it. Ho 
had no aptitude for such industry, and could not endure 
his altered position in the county. He soon relinquished 
Chaldicotes of his own accord, and has vanished away, as 
such men do vanish — not altogether without necessary in- 
come ; to which point in the final arrangement of their 
joint affairs Mrs. Thorne’s man of business — if I may be 
allowed so far to anticipate — paid special attention. 

And thus Lord Dumbello, the duke’s nominee, got in, as 
the duke’s nominee had done for veiy many years past. 
There was no Hemesis here — none as yet. Nevertheless, 
she with the lame foot will assuredly catch him, the duke, 
if it be that he deserve to be caught. With us his grace’s 
appearance has been so unfrequent that I think we may 
omit to make any farther inquiry as to his concerns. 

One point, however, is worthy of notice, as showing the 
good sense with which we manage our affairs here in En- 
gland. In an early portion of this story the reader was 


520 


FRAMLEY TARSOXAGE. 


introduced to the interior of Gatherum Castle, and there 
saw Miss Dunstable entertained by the duke in the most 
friendly manner. Since those days the lady has become 
the duke’s neighbor, and has waged a war with him which 
he probably felt to be very vexatious. But, nevertheless, 
on the next great occasion at Gatherum Castle, Doctor and 
Mrs. Thorne were among the visitors, and to no one was 
the duke more personally courteous than to his opulent 
neighbor, the late Miss Dunstable. 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

HOW THEY WERE ALL MARRIED, HAH TWO CHILDREN, AND 
LIVED HAPPY EVER AFTER. 

Dear, affectionate, sympathetic readers, we have four 
couple of sighing lovers with whom to deal in this our last 
chapter, and I, as leader of the chorus, disdain to press you 
farther with doubts as to the hapjiiness of any of that 
quadrille. They were all made happy, in spite of that lit- 
tle episode which so lately took place at Barchester ; and 
in telling, of their happiness— shortly, as is now necessary 
— we will take them chronologically, giving precedence to 
those who first appeared at the hymeneal altar. 

In July, then, at the cathedral, by the father of the bride, 
assisted by his examining chaplain, Olivia Proudie, the eld- 
est daughter . of the Bishop of Barchester, was joined in mar- 
riage to the Rev. Tobias Tickler, incumbent of the Trinity 
district church in Bethnal Green. Of the bridegroom, in 
this instance, our acquaintance has been so short, that it is 
not, perhaps, necessary to say much. When coming to the 
wedding he proposed to bring his three darling children 
with him ; but in this measure he was, I think prudently, 
stopj)ed by advice, rather strongly worded, from his future 
valued mother-in-law. Mr. Tickler was not an opulent man, 
nor had he hitherto attained any great fame in his profes- 
sion ; but, at the age of forty-three, he still had sufficient 
opportunity before him, and, now that his merit has been 
properly viewed by high ecclesiastical eyes, the refreshing 
dew of deserved promotion will no doubt fall upon him. 
The marriage was very smart, and Olivia carried herself 
through the trying ordeal with an excellent iiropriety of 
conduct. 


FRAMLET PARSONAGE. 


521 


Up ‘to that time, and even for a few days longer, there 
was doubt at Barchester as to that strange journey which 
Lord Dumbello undoubtedly did take to France. When 
a man so circumstanced . will suddenly go to Paris, without 
notice given even to his future bride, people must doubt; 
and grave were the apprehensions expressed on this occa- 
sion by Mrs. Proudie, even at her child’s wedding-break- 
fast. “ God bless you, my dear children,” she said, stand- 
ing up at the , head of her table as she addressed Mr. Tick- 
ler and his wife; “when I see your perfect happiness — 
perfect, that is, as far as human happiness can be made 
perfect in this vale of tears — and think of the terrible ca- 
lamity which has fallen on our unfortunate neighbors, I can 
not but acknowledge His infinite mercy and goodness. 
The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.” By which 
she intended, no doubt, to signify that whereas Mr. Tickler 
had been given to her Olivia, Lord Dumbello had been 
taken away from the archdeacon’s Griselda. The happy 
couple then went in Mrs. Proudie’s carriage to the nearest 
railway station but one, and from thence proceeded to Mal- 
vern, and there spent the honeymoon. 

And a great comfort it was, I am sure, to Mrs. Proudie 
when aut&nticated tidings reached Barchester that Lord 
Dumbello had returned from Paris, and that the Hartletop- 
Grantly alliance was to be carried to its completion. She 
still, however, held her opinion — whether correctly or not, 
Avho shall say ? — that the young lord had intended to es- 
cape. “ The archdeacon has shown great firmness in the 
way in which he has done it,” said Mrs. Proudie; “but 
whether he has consulted his child’s best interests in forcing 
her into a marriage with an unwilling husband, I, for one, 
must take leave to doubt. But then, unfortunately, we all 
know how completely the archdeacon is devoted to world- 
ly matters.” 

In this instance the archdeacon’s devotion to worldly 
matters was rewarded by that success which he no doubt 
desired. He did go up to London, and did see one or two 
of Lord Dumbello’s friends. This he did, not obtrusively, 
as though in fear of any falsehood or vacillation on the part 
of the viscount, but Avith that discretion and tact for Avhich 
he has been so long noted. Mrs. Proudie declares that 
during the few days of his absence from Barsetshire ho 
himself crossed to France and lumted down Lord Dumbello 


522 


TRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


at Paris. As to this I am not prepared to say any thing ; 
but I am quite sure, as will be all those who knew the 
archdeacon, that he was not a man to see his daughter 
wronged as long as any measure remained by which such 
wrong might be avoided. 

But, be that as it may — that mooted question as to the 
archdeacon’s journey to Paris — Lord Dumbello was forth- 
coming at Plumstead on the 5th of August, and went 
through his work like a man. The Hartletop family, when 
the alliance was found to be unavoidable, endeavored to ar- 
range that the wedding should be held at Hartletop Priory, 
in order that the clerical dust and dinginess of Barchester 
Close might not soil the splendor of the marriage gala do- 
ings; for, to tell the truth, the Hartletopians, as a rule, 
were not proud of their new clerical connections. But on 
this subject Mrs. Grantly was very properly inexorable; 
nor, when an attempt was made on the bride to induce her 
to throw over her mamma at the last moment, and pro- 
nounce for herself that she would be married at the Priory, 
was it attended with any success. The Hartletopians knew 
nothing of the Grantly fibre and calibre, or they would 
have made no such attempt. The marriage took place at 
Plumstead, and on the morning of the day Lord Dumbello 
posted over from Barchester to the Rectory. The cere- 
mony was performed by the archdeacon without assistance, 
although the dean, and the precentor, and two other clergy- 
men were at the ceremony. Griselda’s propriety of con- 
duct was quite equal to that of Olivia Proudie; indeed, 
nothing could ^exceed the statuesque grace and fine aristo- 
cratic bearing wdth which she carried herself on the occa- 
sion. The three or four words which the service required 
of her she said with ease and dignity ; there was neither 
sobbing nor crying to disturb the work or embarrass her 
friends, and she signed her name in the Church books as 
“ Griselda Grantly” without a tremor — and without a re- 
gret. 

Mrs. Grantly kissed her and blessed her in the hall as she 
was about to step forward to her traveling carriage, learn 
ing on her father’s arm, and the child put up her face to 
her mother for a last wLisper. “Mamma,” she said, “I 
suppose Jane can put her hand at once on the moire antique 
when we reach Dover ?” Mrs. Grantly smiled and nodded, 
and again blessed her child. There was not a tear shed"* 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


523 


Rt least not tlieii — nor a sign of sorrow to cloud for a mo- 
ment the gay splendor of the day. But the mother did 
bethink herself, in the solitude of her own room, of those 
last Avords, and did acknowledge a lack of something for 
Avhich her heart had sighed. She had boasted to her sister 
that she had nothing to regret as to her daughter’s educa- 
tion ; but now, Avhen she Avas alone after her success, did 
she feel that she could still support herself with that boast ? 
For, be it knoAvn, Mrs. Grantly had a heart within her 
bosom and a faith Avithin her heart. The world, it is true, 
had pressed upon her sorely with all its weight of accumu- 
lated clerical Avealth, but it had not utterly crushed her — 
not her, but only her child. For the sins of the father, are 
they not visited on the third and fourth generation ? 

But if any sucli feeling of remorse did for a while mar 
the fullness of Mrs. Grantly ’s joy, it Avas soon dispelled by 
the perfect success of her daughter’s married life. At the 
end of the autumn the bride and bridegroom returned from 
their tour, and it Avas evident to all the circle at Hartletop 
Priory that Lord Dumbello was by no means dissatisfied 
Avith his bargain. His wife had been admired every whei*e 
to the top of his bent. All the Avorld at Ems, and at Baden, 
and at Nice had been stricken by the stately beauty of the 
young viscountess. And then, too, her manner, style, and 
high dignity of demeanor altogether supported the rever- 
ential feeling which her grace and form at first inspired. 
She never derogated from her husband’s honor by the fic- 
titious liveliness of gossip, or alloAved any one to forget the 
peeress in the woman. Lord Dumbello soon found that 
his reputation for discretion Avas quite safe in her hands, 
and that there were no lessons as to conduct in Avhich it 
AA^as necessary that he should give instruction. 

Before the winter Avas over she had equally Avon the 
hearts of all the circle at Hartletop Priory. The duke was 
there, and declared to the marchioness that Dumbello could 
not possibly have done better. “ Indeed, I do not think 
he could,” said the happy mother. “ She sees all that she 
ought to see, and nothing, that she ought not.” 

And then, in London, Avhen the season came, all men 
sang all manner of praises in her favor, and Lord Dumbello 
Avas made aAvare that he was reckoned among the wisest 
of his age. He had married a Avife Avho managed every 
thing for him, Avho never troubled him, Avhom no Avoman 


524 


FRAMLEY FARSO^TAGE. 


disliked, and whom every man admired. As for feast of 
reason and for flow of soul, is it not a question whether 
any such flows and feasts are necessary between a man and 
his wife? How many men can truly assert that they ever 
enjoy connubial flows of soul, or that connubial feasts of 
reason are in their nature enjoyable? But a handsome 
woman at the head of your table, who knows how to dress, 
and how to sit, and how to get in and out of her carriage 
— who will not disgrace her lord by her ignorance, or fret 
him by her coquetry, or disparage him by her talent — ^how 
beautiful a thing it is ! For my own part, I think that 
Griselda Grantly w’as born to be the wife of a great En- 
glish peer. 

“ After all, then,” said Miss Dunstable, speaking of Lady 
Dumbello — she was Mrs. Thorne at this time — “ after all, 
there is some truth in what our quaint latter-day philoso- 
pher tells us — ‘ Great are thy powers, oh Silence !’ ” 

The marriage of our old friends Dr. Thorne and Miss 
Dunstable was the third on the list, but that did not take 
place till the latter end of September. The lawyers on 
such an occasion had no inconsiderable work to accom- 
plish; and though the lady was not coy, nor the gentle- 
man slow, it was not found practicable to arrange an 
earlier wedding. The ceremony was j^erformed at St. 
George’s, Hanover Square, and was not brilliant in any spe- 
cial degree. London at the time was empty, and the few 
persons whose presence was actually necessary were im- 
j)orted from the country for the occasion. The bride was 
given away by Dr. Easyman, and the two bridesmaids 
were ladies who had lived with Miss Dunstable as compan- 
ions. Young Mr. Gresham and his wife were there, as was 
also Mrs. Harold Smith, who was not at all prepared to 
drop her old friend in her new sphere of life. 

“We shall call her Mrs. Thorne instead of Miss Dun- 
stable, and I really think that that will be all the difier- 
ence,” said Mrs. Harold Smith. 

To Mrs. Harold Smith that probably was all the differ- 
ence, but it was not so to the persons most concerned. 

According to the plan of life arranged between the doc- 
tor and his wife, she was still to keep up her house in Lon- 
don, remaining there during such period of the season as 
she might choose, and receiving him when it might appear 
good to him to visit her ; but he Avas to be the master in 


riiA:yiLEY parsonage. 


525 


the country. A mansion at the Chase was to be built, and, 
till such time as that was completed, they would keep on 
the old house at Greshamsbury. Into this, small as it was, 
Mrs. Thorne — in spite of her great wealth — did not disdain 
to enter. But subsequent circumstances changed their 
plans. It was found that Mr. Sowerby could not or would 
not live at Chaldicotes ; and, therefore, in the second year 
of their marriage, that place was prepared for them. They 
are now well known to the whole county as Dr. and Mrs. 
Thorne of Chaldicotes — of Chaldicotes, in distinction to the 
well-known Thornes of Ullathorne, in the eastern division. ' 
Here they live respected by their neighbors, and on terms 
of alliance both with the Duke of Omnium and with Lady 
Lufton. 

“ Of course those dear old avenues will be very sad to 
me,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, when, at the end of a London 
season, she was invited down to Chaldicotes ; and as she 
sj)oke she put her handkerchief up to her eyes. 

“Well, dear, what can I do?” said Mrs. Thorne. “I 
can’t cut them down ; the doctor would not let me.” 

“ Oh no,” said Mrs. Harold Smith, sighing ; and, in spite 
of her feelings, she did visit Chaldicotes. 

But it was October before Lord Lufton was made a hap- 
py man — that is, if the fruition of his happiness •was a 
greater joy than the anticipation of it. I will not say that 
the happiness of marriage is like the Dead Sea fruit — an 
apple Avhich, when eaten, turns to bitter ashes in the mouth. 
Such pretended sarcasm would be very false. Neverthe- 
less, is it not the fact that the sweetest morsel of love’s 
feast has been eaten, that the freshest, fairest blush of the 
flower has been snatched and has passed away, when the 
ceremony “at the altar has been performed, and legal pos- 
session has been given ? There is an aroma of love, an un- 
definable delicacy of flavor, which escapes and is gone be- 
fore the church portal is left, vanishing with the maiden 
name, and incompatible with the solid comfort appertaining 
to the rank of wife. To love one’s own spouse, and to be 
loved by her* is the ordinary lot of man, and is a duty ex- 
acted under penalties. But to be allowed to love youth 
and beauty that is not one’s own — to know that one is 
loved by a soft being who still hangs cowering from the 
eye of the world as though her love were all but illicit — 
can it be that a man is made happy when a state of antici- 


52G 


FEAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


pation such as this is brought to a close? No; when the 
husband walks back from the altar, he has already swal- 
lowed the choicest dainties of his banquet. The beef and 
pudding of married life are then in store for him — or per- 
haps only the bread and cheese. Let him take care lest 
hardly a crust remain, or perhaps not a crust. 

But, before w^e finish, let us go back for one moment to 
the dainties — to the time before the beef and pudding 
were served — while Lucy was still at the Parsonage, and 
Lord Lufton still staying at Framley Court. He had come 
up one morning, as was now frequently his wont, and, after 
a few minutes’ conversation, Mrs. Robarts had left the 
room — as not unfrequently on such occasions was her wont. 
Lucy was working and continued her work, and Lord Luf- 
ton for a moment or two sat looking at her ; then he got 
up abruptly, and, standing before her, thus questioned her : 

“ Lucy,” said he. 

“Well, what of Lucy now? Any particular fault this 
morning ?” 

“ Yes, a most j^articular fault. When I asked you, here, 
in this room, on this very spot, whether it was possible that 
you should love me, why did 3^011 say that it was impossi- 
ble?” 

Lucy, instead of answering at the moment, looked down 
upon the carpet, to see if his memory were as good as hers. 
Yes, he was standing on the exact spot where he had stood 
before. No spot in all the world was more frequently clear 
before her own eyes. 

“Do you remember that day, Lucy ?” he said again. 

“ Yes, I remember it,” she said. 

“ Why did you say it was impossible ?” 

“ Did I say impossible ?” 

She knew that she had said ^o. She remembered how 
she had Avaited till he had gone, and that then, going to 
her own room, she had reproached herself Avith the cow- 
ardice of the falsehood. She had lied to him then ; and 
noAA^ — hoAV Avas she punished for it ! 

“ Well, I suppose it Avas possible,” she saicf. 

“ But why did you say so Avhen you kneAV it would make 
me so miserable?” 

“ Miserable ! nay, but 3^ou Avent aAvay happy enough. I 
thought I had never seen you look better satisfied.” 

“ Lucy !” 


FKAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


527 


“ You had done your duty, and had had such a lucky 
escape ! What astonishes me is that you should have ever 
come back again. But the pitcher may go to the well once 
too often, Lord Lufton.” 

“ But will you tell me the truth now 

“ What truth 

“ That day, when I came to you — did you love me at all 
then ?” 

“We’ll let by-gones be by-gones, if you please.” 

“ But I swear you shall tell me. It was such a cruel 
thing to answer me as you did, unless you meant it. And 
yet you never saw me again till after my mother had been 
over for you to Mrs. Crawley’s.” 

“ It was absence that made me — care for you.” 

“ Lucy, I swear I believe you loved me then.” 

“ Ludovic, some conjuror must have told you that.” 

She was standing as she spoke, and, laughing at him, she 
held up her hands and shook her head. But she was now 
in his power, and he had his revenge — his revenge for her 
past falsehood and her present joke. Hoav could he be 
more happy, when he was made happy by having her all 
his own, than he was now ? 

And in these days there again came up that petition as 
to her riding — with very different result now than on that 
former occasion. There were ever so many objections 
then. There was no habit, and Lucy was — or said that 
she was — afraid ; and then, what would Lady Lufton say ? 
But now Lady Lufton thought it would be quite right; 
only were they quite sure about the horse ? Was Ludovic 
certain that the horse had been ridden by a lady? And 
Lady Meredith’s habits were dragged out as a matter of 
course, and one of them chij^ped, and snipped, and altered 
without any compunction. And as for fear, there could be 
no bolder horsewoman than Lucy Robarts. It was quite 
clear to all Framley that riding was the very thing for her. 
“ But I never shall be happy, Ludovic, till you have got a 
horse properly suited for her,” said Lady Lufton. 

And then, also, came the affair of her wedding garments 
— of her trousseau — as to which I can not boast that she 
showed capacity or steadiness at all equal to that of Lady 
Dumbello. Lady Lufton, however, thought it a very seri- 
ous matter ; and as, in her opinion, Mrs. Robarts did not 
go about it with sufficient energy, she took the matter 


528 


PEAMLEY PAESONAGE. 


inainly into her own hands, striking Lucy dumb by her 
frowns and nods, deciding on every thing herself, down to 
the very tags of the boot-ties. 

“ My dear, you really must allow me to know what I am 
about and Lady Lufton patted her on the arm as she 
spoke. “ I did it all for Justinia, and she never had reason 
to regret a single thing that I bought. If you’ll ask her, 
she’ll tell you so.” 

Lucy did not ask her future sister-in-law, seeing that she 
had no doubt whatever as to her future mother-in-law’s 
judgment on the articles in question. Only the money! 
And what could she w^ant with six dozen pocket-handker- 
chiefs all at once ? There was no question of Lord Luf- 
ton’s going out as governor general to India ! But twelve 
dozen pocket-handkerchiefs had not been too many for Gri- 
selda’s imagination. 

And Lucy would sit alone in the drawing-room at Fram- 
ley Court, hlling her heart with thoughts of that evening 
when she had first sat there. She had then resolved, pain- 
fully, with inward tears, with groanings of her spirit, that 
she was 'wrongly placed in being in that comj^any. Gri- 
selda Grantly had been there, quite at her ease, petted by 
Lady Lufton, admired by Lord Lufton, 'while she had re- 
tired out of sight, sore at heart because she felt herself to 
be no fit companion to those around her. Then he had 
come to her, making matters almost worse by talking to 
her, bringing the tears into her eyes by his good-nature, 
but still wounding her by the feeling that she could not 
speak to him at her ease. 

But things were at a different pass with her now. He 
had chosen her — her out of all the w^orld, and brought her 
there to share 'with him his own home, his own honors, and 
all that he had to give. She was the apple of his eye and 
the pride of his heart. And the stern mother, of whom 
she had stood so much in awe, who at first had passed her 
by as a thing not to be noticed, and had then sent out to 
her that she might be warned to keep herself aloof, now 
hardly knew in what way she might sufficiently show her 
love, regard, and solicitude. 

I must not say that Lucy was not proud in these mo- 
ments — that her heart was not elated at these thoughts. 
Success does beget pride, as failure begets shame. But her 
pride w^as of that sort which is in no 'way disgraceful to 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


529 


either man or woman, and was accompanied by pure true 
love, and a full resolution "to do her duty in that state of 
life to which it had pleased her God to call her. She did 
rejoice greatly to think that she had been ohosen, and not 
Griselda. Was it possible that, having loved, she should 
not so rejoice, or that, rejoicing, she should not be proud 
of her love ? 

They spent the whole winter abroad, leaving the dow- 
ager Lady Lufton to her plans and preparations for their 
reception at Framley Court ; and in the following spring 
they appeared in London, and there set up their staff. 
Lucy had some inner tremblings of the spirit and quiver- 
ings about the heart at thus beginning her duty before the 
great world, but she said little or nothing to her husband 
on the matter. Other women had done as much before 
her time, and by courage had gone through with it. It 
would be dreadful enough, that position in her own house, 
with lords and ladies bowing to her, and stiff members of 
Parliament for whom it would be necessary to make small 
talk ; but, nevertheless, it was to be endured. The time 
came, and she did endure it. The time came, and before 
the first six weeks were over she found that it was easy 
enough. The lords and ladies got into their proper places, 
and talked to her about ordinary matters in a way that 
made no effort necessary, and the members of Parliament 
were hardly more stiff than the clergymen she had known , 
in the neighborhood of Framley. 

She had not been long in town before she met Lady 
Diunbello. At this interview also she had to overcome 
some little inward emotion. On the few occasions on which 
she had met Griselda Grantly at Framley they had not 
much progressed in friendship, and Lucy had felt that she 
Iiad been despised by the rich beauty. She also, in her 
turn, had disliked, if she had not despised, her rival. But 
how would it be now ? Lady Dumbello could hardly de- 
spise her, and yet it did not seem possible that they should 
meet as friends. They did meet, and Lucy came forward 
with a pretty eagerness to give her hand to Lady Lufton’s 
late favorite. Lady Dumbello smiled slightly — the same 
old smile which had come across her face when they two 
had been first introduced in the Framley drawing-room; 
the same smile without the variation of a line — took the 
offered hand, muttered a word or two, and then receded. 

Z 


530 


FRAMLEY PARSONAGE. 


It was exactly as she had done before. She had never de- 
spised Lucy Robarts. She had accorded to the parson’s 
sister the amount of cordiality with which she usually re- 
ceived her acquaintance, and now she could do no more 
for the peer’s wife. Lady Dumbello and Lady Lufton 
have known each other ever since, and have occasionally 
visited at each other’s houses, but the intimacy between 
them has never gone beyond this. 

The dowager came up to town for about a month, and, 
while there, was contented to fill a second place. She had 
no desire to be the great lady in London. But then came 
the trying period when they commenced their life together 
at Framley Court. The elder lady formally renounced her 
place at the top of the table — formally persisted in renounc- 
ing it, though Lucy, wdth tears, implored her to resume it. 
She said also, with equal formality — repeating her determ- 
ination over and over again to Mrs. Robarts with great en- 
ergy — that she would in no respect detract, by interference 
of her own, from the authority of the proper mistress of the 
house ; but, nevertheless, it is well known to every one at 
Framley that old Lady Lufton still reigns paramount in 
the parish. 

“Yes, my dear ; the big room looking into the little gar- 
den to the south was always the nursery, and, if you ask 
my advice, it will still remain so. But, of course, any room 
you please — ” 

And the big room, looking into the little garden to the 
south, is still the nursery at Framley Court. 


THE END. 


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Geeqoey, LL.D., and Rev. Joseph Belohee. Portrait. 4 vols., Svo, 
Cloth, $8 00. 

HAMILTON’S (Sie WILLIAM) WORKS. Discussions on Philosophy and 
Literature, Education and University Reform. Chiefly from the Edin- 
burcfh Review. Corrected, Vindicated, and Enlarged, in Notes and Ap- 
pendices. By Sir William Hamilton, Bart. With an Introductory Essay 
by Rev. Roeket Tubnbdll, D.D. Svo, Cloth, $3 00. 

HUMBOLDT’S COSMOS. Cosmos : a Sketch of a Physical Description of 
the Universe. By Alexanpee Von Humbolpt. Translated from the 
German by E. C. Ott^. 6 vols., 12mo, Cloth, $6 25. 




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